


Catchweight

by notlucy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Plot, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Because I'm sure I forgot some, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Comic Book Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, From a villain, Homophobic Language, M/M, Meet-Cute, Memory Loss, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sort Of, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: For the most part, Steve’s life is fine. Sure, his job is tedious, he lives with his mother, and he can’t quite get over thinking he’s wasting his potential, but maybe that’s just part of being twenty-three. Then, one day—one totally dull day—the archetypal cliche of a tall, dark, and handsome beefcake walks up to his counter, bringing with him more questions than answers, and a duffel bag full of cash.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 527
Kudos: 1273
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2018





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeyBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyBoy/gifts).



> This story is an incredibly belated Marvel Trumps Hate 2018 fill for HeyBoy. I’m so sorry - no excuses, only life. I hope this lives up to the hopes you had for it, and that it makes you smile. To the two of you who are still owed fills, please take this as a sign of good faith that they will one day be completed.

The chair is squeaking.

It's subtle, at first, so Steve thinks maybe he's imagining things as he sits there. Twisting back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. And…yeah. It's worse now. The squeak. Probably on account of the twisting. But also: the chair is one million and five years old (carbon-dated), covered in threadbare fabric with the beige padding beneath peeking through in places. Theoretically, the back is adjustable, and maybe it was once, thirty or forty years ago, when it rolled off the line. Now, it is a dinosaur, lumbering through its final days, resolutely refusing to provide even the smallest bit of comfort to its owner.

Still, it has never _squeaked_ before. The squeak is novel. Fresh. Exciting. Marking this day above all days as momentous and important. Except that's a lie. No day is exciting when it's spent sitting behind a counter. Especially this nondescript ivory counter, which spans the length of the credit union in which he works. So boring they haven't even bothered with bulletproof glass—who'd want to rob this place, with its worn linoleum and understaffed interior? The pension checks and costume jewelry tucked into safe deposit boxes wouldn't be worth the effort.

Steve doesn't hate his job. There are worse places to work in the world, and in some strange way, the credit union feels like home. Because it's the same credit union his mother, Sarah, has been using since the early nineties. Since the year he turned four, and she finished nursing school, receiving her diploma, her first job, and a brand new checking account in one fell swoop. Things haven't changed much in the intervening years. Sure, Sarah's worked her way up from bedpans to charge nurse for an ICU, but she still works a lot of nights. Still scrimps and saves. Still as proud of every paycheck as she was of that very first one.

He remembers that day—how it had felt to hold her hand, to walk through the double glass doors, to see the row of tellers sitting behind the counter, waiting to take that oh-so-miraculous piece of paper that bestowed money upon its bearer.

These days, Steve’s till is usually the only one open. The hospital—along with most other businesses—switched to direct deposit quite some time ago.

Which, honestly, is fine with him. Being the lone guy behind the desk during the week means more hours, and more hours means that he has more money to put toward his loans. Paying off that oh-so-illustrious B.F.A. any way he can. It's not that he doesn't want bigger and better for himself—he had some cool internships, and he'd even had the lead on a corporate design job his senior year. But that had fizzled into nothing, in the end, as had the rest of his career aspirations. A topic on which he prefers not to dwell. It's not as if everyone in his graduating class went on to fame and fortune, but he's willing to bet that most of them have chairs that don't squeak.

It could be worse, though. Sure, the job is tedious, and nobody save pensioners and kids opening their first savings accounts really come _in_ , but it’s steady. And hey, sometimes people who haven’t been to a bank in years show up with one of those in-person requests like old savings bonds. Then, he gets to look up how to do things in the big binders with the cracked spines that sit beneath his station.

This morning, though, they've been open for an hour, and the only person he's seen is his boss, Mia, who generally stays in her office and leaves Steve to his own devices. She handles the fascinating and vital things like loan applications, obviously. Steve likes her a lot—she's the one who hired him, remembering him as a "good kid" that she could trust to be honest. Steve is nothing if not that—to a fault, sometimes—but he appreciates Mia's faith. There isn't a lot of neighborly feeling left in Brooklyn, so he'll take what he can get.

While Steve is contemplating whether or not his chair could survive a full three-sixty spin, the bell above the door chimes. Seconds later, Mrs. Washington totters her way in, cane in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. Because it's the second Tuesday of the month, and on the second Tuesday of the month, Mrs. Washington deposits her rent checks. Rain or shine, every time, in her sensible patent leather pumps with a face full of makeup and a colorful scarf knotted about her neck.

“Good morning, Mrs. Washington,” he greets, straightening up.

"Steve," she replies, bypassing the nylon ropes that have been set up to corral the theoretical hordes to directly approach the counter. She opens her envelope to retrieve two checks, along with a scrupulously filled-out deposit slip.

“Looks like everyone paid on time this month,” he says, beginning the process of pulling up her account.

“Had to lean on the newlyweds.” She rests her now-free hand on the counter, flashing a pearly white smile no doubt made for her in a dental lab. “Their lease is up in a couple months—I’m tempted not to renew.”

The newlyweds, Steve has learned, are a young couple, originally from Virginia, who moved to Brooklyn two years prior, to chase the husband's dream of pursuing a start-up. Something to do with artisanal beef jerky, according to Mrs. Washington. Steve appreciates that they tried—hung their hat on a dream and went for it, which is more than he can say for himself. But they had bad timing: everyone in Brooklyn was curating some artsy-fartsy version of a conventional product during that era, so now the couple perpetually struggles to make rent, leaving Mrs. Washinton a frustrated landlady.

Her biggest problem, according to what she's told Steve, is that she lives in the building, too. She's resided in the same ground floor apartment since she and her late husband purchased the brownstone during the first half of the seventies. At the time, they'd put their life savings into the conversion of the former single-family brownstone into three separate units. Somehow, the building and the Washingtons survived the scourge of latter-day gentrification, but after Mr. Washington passed away, Mrs. Washington found herself solely responsible for maintenance and rent collection. And Mrs. Washington? Well, "I'm not so good at playing the heavy," she'd said more than once. "That was always Malcolm's job." So, the not-so-newlyweds keep falling into arrears, and she keeps letting them—talking a big game at the bank, sure, but having a soft heart when it comes to actually following through.

“Well,” he says, typing her deposit amount into the computer. “I guess it’s whether you want the devil you know, or the devil you don’t.”

“That’s the truth,” she agrees. “It’s too much work now—background checks and all that folderol. Say, you’re not looking for a place, are you?”

“Define looking,” he teases, because she knows very well that he lives with his mother. Which isn’t the cohabitation situation one hopes for in one’s early twenties, but their apartment is rent-controlled thanks to his grandparents, and the neighborhood’s gotten super fucking expensive. “Besides, you know I can’t afford your place.”

That gets another grin out of her. “Can I help it if these people are willing to pay three times what the old girl’s worth?”

“I still think you should sell it. Pocket the cash and move to Florida, or hey…your daughter’s in Chicago now, right?”

“You think I need that cold, with my joints?” she laughs. “Anyhow, Jennifer’s husband is a horse’s ass.”

“So, Florida, then? Let someone else do the hard work.”

“I don’t trust those gators—the Gowanus is all the swamp I need,” she counters, taking the receipt when he hands it over. “But I’ll think about it.”

“You’d better.”

She won't, though. She'll be in that house until she dies or one of her children decides she's not compos mentis. So long as her memories of Mr. Washington remain—the good times, the bad times, and all the times in between—she'll be there. Steve can respect that, even if he thinks she might be happier elsewhere. Less stress. Less worry. Fewer ghosts.

“You have a good day now, Steve,” she says, once her receipt is neatly tucked into the envelope.

“You, too, Mrs. Washington. I’ll see you next month.”

She heads for the door, and Steve busies himself with filing her checks. When the bell chimes again, he assumes she’s gone, but then he hears: “thank you, young man” and glances up to find her speaking to the whole fucking side of beef that’s currently holding the door open for her.

Oh, Steve is a shallow, shallow boy. Because the man at the entrance is a prime cut. Which is possibly the least intellectual thought he has ever thought, but the dude is _gigantic_. And Steve might have imprinted on some very specific muscle fetish porn when he was a teenager, so big, beefy guys do it for him like nothing else. And this one? The beefiest. Not fat, but _cut_. As if he spends twenty-eight hours a day, nine days a week at the gym. Resulting in shoulders as broad as any linebacker's, and thighs that are just…well. They just are. They exist. They are thick. And Steve is _not_ looking at them. Definitely not paying a bit of attention to the way the guy’s black jeans hug those thighs. Or the way the hem of his navy peacoat just happens to skim the tops of them, drawing the eye ass-ward, as it were.

And _really_ , is it Steve’s fault that the coat has double-breasted buttons, which only serve to make Mr. Beef look even wider? No, it’s not. It’s unfair, is what it is, to combine an already obscene genetic advantage with those buttons. Honestly, dude’s whole look is a _lot_ , with the boots and the jeans and the long, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He’s scruffy in the face, too, but not in an overly-manicured way. Just in a scruffy way. Like he only shaves _sometimes_ because he can't be fucked to groom himself on the regular, which is another turn-on. Because Steve is a person who gives fucks frequently, so when he sees someone who looks like they don't give any? It's a lot to process.

The guy offers a nod to Mrs. Washington as she exits, then comes toward the counter holding a duffel bag in his leather-gloved left hand. No glove on the right, though, which Steve might have thought was strange, except he’s distracted by the sight of Hot and Beefy winding through the line ropes. Like he’s not the only fucking person in the lobby. Like he’s gonna follow the rules because the rules are in place. Like he’s a Boy Scout under all that bulk.

Steve wants to lean across the counter and pinch his cheeks.

Which is a weird thought. He gets laid too often for the sight of a marginally (incredibly) attractive guy to throw him off his game this badly.

"Hi," he says, voice coming out an octave lower than usual, because his hormones have decided it's time to be suave by way of Rick Astley.

“Good morning,” replies Hot and Beefy, formal and stiff as he meets Steve’s eyes.

Blue eyes. Pretty. Not serial killer blue, more of a grey-blue. Bad poetry blue. And— _and_ —he has eye-crinkles, which betray him as older than Steve initially guessed. Thirty? Maybe thirty. Maybe older. It’s hard to say; he has one of those faces that looks like it’s seen a lot.

Realizing a beat too late that it’s his turn to speak, Steve clears his throat. “Uh. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to open an account, if that’s possible,” Hot and Beefy says in that same oddly formal way.

“Definitely, definitely!” Steve has never been such a competent, cheerful professional “Let me get you a form.”

“Thank you.”

Finding the form proves more challenging than it should be, as most people open their accounts online (through their state of the art website that's at least six years out of date, maintained by a sixty-eight-year-old IT consultant named Phil). Finally, though, he locates the right binder and pulls out an old-fashioned carbon-copy form, with the white-pink-yellow papers in triplicate. He passes it to the guy, along with a pen. "You uh, you have to press down kind of hard. So it goes through all three layers."

"Nifty," he says, which might be sarcasm, or might be genuine—it's hard to tell. Taking the form, he steps to the side, as if there might be other customers coming, and he doesn't want to inconvenience them while he does his paperwork. Another point for the Boy Scout. Meanwhile, Steve pretends to be busy, clicking away at a game of solitaire, watching surreptitiously as Hot and Beefy meticulously prints his information.

When he finishes, he steps back to Steve’s bit of counter and slides the paper over. Steve turns it around, eyes flicking over the details. “Great,” he says, like opening an account for this dude is the most exciting thing to ever happen in the history of the world. “I just need two forms of identification and a proof of address, Mr. Thompson.” Jacob Thompson. East Twelfth Street. Brooklyn. That’s really close—couple blocks away. He’s practically Steve’s neighbor. Which isn’t at all a creepy thought. Steve is a very normal, chill person.

Mr. Thompson—Jacob—doesn't respond. Just produces a wallet, retrieving a New York State license and a social security card, placing both on the counter. He follows that with a ConEd bill from his duffel bag, name and address neatly printed at the top. According to the license, Jacob is thirty-three, which makes him not _quite_ ten years older than Steve. And Steve has a thing for older men, though that doesn't matter because it's not like—

"Is there a problem?" Jacob asks, interrupting Steve's deep dive down the rabbit hole of what-if and would-he.

“Oh, no,” he says, a faint heat rising in his cheeks. “Sorry. Just…Mondays, am I right?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Ha, yeah.” The heat becomes an inferno. It was a corny joke, sure, but the guy might have cracked a smile. “Sorry. Just uh…give me a second.” It takes him a few minutes to type all the information into the computer. An utterly redundant process, but the big boss (not Mia) likes to have paper files, too, because he’s old school and hates trees.

While Steve is typing, Jacob just stands there. Not doing anything in particular. Not even checking his phone, which might be the oddest thing about him. Everyone checks their phones—shit, even Mrs. Washington plays Snake on her old flip phone occasionally when Steve's computer is acting up, and her transaction takes longer than usual. Not Jacob, though. He just stands there and _stares_. Not at Steve, even, but at the wall behind him, which holds nothing more interesting than an ugly painting of river fish, the door to the break room, and the hallway leading to the area that contains both the safety deposit boxes and their big, fuck-off safe.

Strange. But that’s the way of it with hot people—they’re allowed to be eccentric because they’re good-looking. Average or below-average schmoes like Steve have to uphold some semblance of normality while making their way in this mean old world.

"So um," he says once everything's settled. "The savings account is free, so long as you keep a minimum of a hundred bucks in the checking account. Otherwise, there's a twenty-five dollar monthly fee. We'll send you a debit card in the mail in seven to ten business days, but you can come in to get money if you need it before then. Oh, and there's no fees at a lot of ATMs around here because we have a partnership with…some company that waives it. I don't really know how it works." Not like it's his job to know, or anything.

“Thank you,” Jacob says, attention shifting from the wall to Steve’s face.

“Do you…so, do you want to deposit a hundred today? To avoid the fee?”

Jacob lifts his duffel onto the counter and unzips it. Looking inside, Steve nearly does a double-take at the stacks of bills. Mostly fifties and hundreds, bundled and bound. It's more money than he has ever seen at one time, and he works in a _bank_.

Who the hell carries that much cash? Strippers, maybe, but strippers work with small bills. Prostitute? He doesn't seem the type. Not that Steve has a lot of experience with sex workers, but he doesn't get that vibe from Jacob. Plus, male prostitutes probably don't make as much as female ones and…hey. He needs to hop off this particular thought train before it picks up steam.

Mafia?

Now that’s a possibility. 

“Uh,” he laughs. “Wow. I uh. I need to count this. But…how much is it?” A baseline would be helpful.

“Twenty,” Jacob says without hesitating.

“Thousand?” Obviously, Steve.

“Yes.”

Definitely mafia. Or a drug dealer. Something shady.

Either way, it isn’t his business. Or, well, it _is_ his business, technically, but nobody's going to go after the teller who naively accepted a large cash deposit. Picking up the first stack, he starts running the bills through the counting machine, which takes a while. Mercifully, after the last stack passes through, a total of precisely twenty-thousand pops up on the screen. Steve breathes a sigh of relief—God knows what hot, beefy, mafia drug dealer dudes do if the final count is a couple hundred under what they expect.

“So um, most of it in savings?”

“Five thousand in checking,” Jacob replies quietly. “Fifteen in savings.”

“Got it.” He taps away at his keyboard, the nosy part of him desperate to ask, the professional part keeping his mouth shut. When the receipt prints, he passes it over. “Thank you for choosing us.”

Jacob folds the receipt three times before sliding it into his wallet. Then, he takes one of Steve’s embossed business cards from the plastic holder on the counter. Those So-Very-Official Cards that make Steve feel sort of stupid, because it’s not like he really _does_ anything worthy of having them. “Thank you, Steve,” he says, after glancing down.

Wow, Steve likes that. The way his name sounds in Jacob's soft voice. The kind of voice people expect a guy who looks like Steve to have, only Steve has the kind of voice people expect a guy who looks like Jacob to have. Making it all that much better for Jacob to say his name in that wrong-voice. That soft voice.

God, it's been a while since he had an instant crush on a customer, though it helps that most of his clientele are either geriatric or under the age of ten.

“That’s me,” he agrees, losing control of his good sense and lifting his arm to _wave_ at Jacob. Like an asshole.

Jacob’s eyes flick from the card to Steve’s undoubtedly tomato red face. He nods, then slides the card into his wallet, and his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. “I hope you have a nice day.” That’s Steve’s line, but he’s willing to relinquish custody.

“You, too. Uh. Mr. Thompson.”

The faintest hint of a smile touches Jacob’s lips before he’s gone as quickly as he came, disappearing through the doors and into the brittle November sunshine.

Steve drops his arm and closes his eyes, blowing an errant lock of hair from his forehead.

His chair squeaks in sympathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I wonder if “Jacob” and Steve will meet again? It’s a mystery, a total unknown. What even is romance? Also, I have never worked in a bank or a credit union, so please don't laugh me out of the room. Thanks to Kate for her skilled beta, as always. 
> 
> The story is 15 chapters, plus an epilogue, fully written, just needs editing and posting. My goal is one chapter every week, but with my current work situation (aka the tire fire that is never extinguished), I can’t commit 100% to a specific posting day. Rest assured, though, it’s going to happen! (GALTAL will also continue to happen periodically, if you’re looking at this story and wondering why I’m not writing more in that other universe.)


	2. Chapter 2

Steve mostly forgets about Jacob, because for all that he was nice to look at, he’s not the first good-looking guy to come through Steve’s line. 

Or. Well. He’s the first guy who’s _that_ good looking to come through Steve’s line. But he’s not the first handsome man Steve’s ever seen. Nor is he the first way-out-of-his-league guy to turn Steve’s head. Falling for what he can’t have is routine, truth be told. He has a type, and his most persistent crushes tend not to deviate from it. Tall? Yup. Dark? Please. Handsome? Well, shit, there’s a reason it’s a cliche. 

Lived experience, however, has tended not to match the preferred profile. Because if Steve had held out for Mr. Perfect to check every single box, he'd probably still be a virgin. That particular ship had sailed not long after he turned sixteen—the S.S. Celibacy steaming from the port with Mikey Blumenthal manning the tiller. On the night in question, Steve hadn't gone to Mikey's house intending to get laid, but when he arrived to find that Mikey's parents weren't home? Well, shit, they'd already had two not-quite-dates, so the third seemed the perfect opportunity to grope one another while grunting like a pair of asthmatic donkeys.

(To be fair, Mikey had sounded more like a regular donkey. Steve was the one who had asthma.)

Since that maiden voyage, Steve's been neither lonely nor a true lothario. He's had opportunities, and he's taken them. Like college—college had been good to him. No longer an angry, gangly high schooler with a massive chip on his shoulder, but instead a college man. And as a college man, he had used his four years to pursue both his degree and every interested male in a five-mile radius.

So, yeah. Steve’s fucked. Has been fucked. Continues to fuck to this very day, in fact. 

Although he has to admit, the pickings have been slimmer since graduation. Not nonexistent, but living with his mother and having limited funds means he's not getting laid as regularly as he did when conquests merely dragged him to the dorms for some dick. Unfortunately, his libido doesn't care that the spigot has dried up, making its dissatisfaction known through a rich fantasy life, plus a lot of morning shower masturbation.

Steve should probably try harder to find a stable source of satisfaction. Maybe a boyfriend to boot. Hop on an app and update his profile to say he's seeking something more than sex. The thing is, though, most of the guys who express an interest in Steve tend to be a lot _like_ Steve: attractive enough under dim light, but nothing to swoon over the morning after. Which is a good thing when it comes to striking up conversations—he's not intimidated by his fellow less-than-Godlike brethren—but not so great for finding the man of one's dreams.

Because what Steve really wants is a guy like Jacob Thompson. And guys like Jacob Thompson? They intimidate the hell out of him, causing him to regress to his worst self: his gawky, thirteen-year-old, incredibly defensive and shitty self. The self that knew he was gay but had no idea what to do about that fact. The self that was too scared to put himself out into the world. The self that projected his darkest desires onto the poster of Tom Welling as Clark Kent he'd put up on his wall. (In the end, he got laid well before he took that poster down, mostly because the image of ol' Clark strung up in a cornfield wearing nothing but a kryptonite necklace fed his superhero fetish like nothing else.)

So yeah, guys like Jacob make him stammer. Meaning that it’s better for Steve’s sanity if he keeps his expectations realistic, allowing him to maintain a healthy relationship with both his self-image and his sexuality. Regardless of whether he’s getting laid as often as he’d like. Which, again, is his own fault. He could. He _should_. Hell, it’s almost Christmas, so there’ll be plenty of awkward college kids headed home for the season who will soon tire of their families and need an escape.

Steve is a perfect escape. After all, his mother works nights.

Pulling out his phone, he opens Grindr to study his options. To tap, or not to tap.

_No...no…out of my league…eh…ooh, scrawny, maybe later…nice abs so no chance and...ew, mirror selfie, no…_

Distantly, he hears the sound of a chime, though it doesn’t fully register now that he’s gotten into his judgmental yet somehow self-deprecating roll call. 

Someone clears their throat. Oops. Flipping his phone over, he looks up and into the eyes of Jacob Thompson. 

Mother of fuck. “Hi!” he says forty-six percent too enthusiastically, compensating for professional guilt with obsequiousness. 

“Good morning.” If Jacob is bothered by Steve’s distraction, his face doesn’t show it. “I’d like to make a deposit.” 

“Sure thing. It’s Jacob, right? Thompson?”

That’s not weird. Definitely not creepy to remember the first and last names of a customer you’ve only met once. 

Jacob frowns, then glances toward the door. Then looks back at Steve, then the door, then Steve, before slowly placing his duffel on the counter.

Steve would kick his own ass if he thought his foot could reach. 

“Yes. Jacob. And you’re…Steve?”

“I am!” He says, like the chipper bastard spawn of two Disney princesses. “Did they send you your debit card?” 

"Yes." He takes it from his wallet and lays it on the counter with a gloved hand. Once again, the other is bare. Steve can't help wondering why, his mind imagining Luke Skywalker-Esque prosthetics beneath the leather. Or, okay, maybe he was just a burn victim or something. It's not nice to speculate.

“There should be thirteen-thousand five-hundred,” Jacob says. 

"Thanks," Steve replies, tamping down on his idle thoughts as he begins to run the stacks of cash through the automated counter. The silence is killing him, though, so after a minute, he blurts, "cold out there today, huh?" 

Jacob blinks twice. “Sure.”

Steve should stop talking. His mouth misses the memo. “That’s a nice coat. Is it warm?”

Jacob considers the question, looking down as if the practicality of his peacoat has never occurred to him before. “Warm enough.” 

Not a talker, this one. Then again, neither is Steve. Except around beautiful men, apparently, because he keeps yapping away like a malfunctioning animatronic. “That’s good. Mine’s kind of old—got a couple holes. I need to get a new one. Where did you get yours?” 

There’s a long pause. Too long, in fact, and Steve looks up to find Jacob frowning in consternation. “I don’t remember,” he offers finally. 

"Oh. Sure. If you've had it a while, I guess you wouldn't. I don't think I can remember where I got mine." That's not true, though. It was in Filene's Basement—a shopping trip with his best friend Lorraine that ended with her discovery of a designer handbag marked down to twenty bucks. Steve's coat had been a mere distraction after that.

The machine beeps. Thirteen thousand, five hundred on the nose. 

“That’s all set,” he says, handing over the receipt. “Uh. Have a nice day, Mr. Thompson.” 

“You, too,” Jacob says, gloved fingers closing around both the paper and the duffel handles as he turns to go.

* * *

The third time Steve serves Jacob, it’s Christmas Eve eve. The branch has been a ghost town all day, so Steve has been passing the time sketching superheroes on the back of deposit slips, creating a series of panels for a would-be comic book. He looks up at the sound of the door chime, sliding the papers to the side when he sees who it is.

“Hi,” he says in a manner that’s legitimately more chill than last time, or so he chooses to believe. 

Jacob puts his bag on the desk and nods. “Good morning. Or, ah, Merry Christmas?”

“Happy holidays,” he shoots back on instinct.

Jacob sighs. Steve frowns, worried he’s about to get a lecture regarding the War on Christmas and steels himself accordingly. Instead, Jacob’s shoulders slump, lips twisting into a miserable little frown. “It’s so goddamn confusing.” 

“What?”

“Christmas. I went to buy groceries, and as the clerk was ringing me up, she said happy holidays. Pleasant enough, I figure, so I say it back. But then this woman behind me starts getting mouthy about us being ungodly, un-Christian. So I’m thinking…maybe it’s offensive, but how’m I supposed to know? Can’t fathom why it _would_ be, but there's a lot that—ah, shit, anyway, now I'm here, and you seem ready to snap your cap over Christmas."

He looks so miserable that Steve has to wonder if mafia drug runners have a moratorium on the culture wars, because how does he _not_ know about the nonsense surrounding holiday vernacular? 

“Ah,” he attempts, then pauses to tap the bag. “How much today, by the way?”

“Ten.”

Nodding, he starts to load the machine while working through an explanation. "Okay. So. Thing is, some people have sticks up their asses about us liberal bastards waging war on Christmas. Like there aren't other holidays this time of year. Those people—idiots, in my opinion—think that wishing someone happy holidays is the equivalent of saying you hate God, America, and capitalism. They _also_ enjoy yelling at those of us who are paid by the hour to be nice to them, using Merry Christmas like a battering ram to ruin our days.” 

“Oh.” Jacob frowns. “Don’t they got better shit to worry about?” 

Steve nearly smiles. “One would think.”

“That’s the war people feel like fighting these days, then…” he trails off and shakes his head before leaning over to look at Steve’s comics. “What are those?” 

Steve demurs, “just doodles.” 

“They’re good.” 

Blergh, the tips of his ears are going hot. “Uh. Thanks.” He needs to change the subject. “Got any plans for the holiday?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Why would you be sorry?”

“Because…” He searches for a reason that isn’t rude or potentially offensive. “Some people don’t have plans. And it’s rude to assume that everyone does.” 

“I don’t think it’s rude.” 

“All the same.” He busies himself with the cash, unable to look Jacob in the eye. “Sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” he reiterates. “I am going away, though, but not because it’s Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“Business.”

“Sucks to travel this time of year.” 

Jacob cocks his head to the side—the world’s beefiest cocker spaniel—then pockets the receipt. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s good. Well. Happy holidays, wherever you spend them.” 

“Yes.” Jacob offers him a slight smile. “Happy holidays, Steve.”

* * *

Jacob returns for a fourth visit during the second week of January. Steve's not sure if he's been in during the interim (as he'd taken some time off around Christmas), but when he pulls up his account, he sees that it is, indeed, his fourth visit ever, with no other transactions listed, online or otherwise. Which, weirdly, makes Steve happy—as if Jacob is his own private little secret. (Granted, it also means that Jacob has never withdrawn or used his money. Maybe drug-dealing prostitute mafia guys don't need cash?)

“So um,” Steve says, once the money is running through the machine. “I wanted to ask you something. Because you look like you’d know, and it’s for my new year’s resolution.”

(Namely: Steve's resolution is to have fewer weird conversations with Jacob. To do that, he has to find legitimate reasons to speak to him.)

“Oh.” Jacob blinks. “Shoot.”

“Right. So. I’m trying to uh. Bulk up? Get stronger. I figured you probably do a lot of weight training or CrossFit or whatever, because you’re so…” He lifts his hand in an exaggerated gesture feeling like an idiot because Jacob is just _standing_ there, looking more confused by the minute. So much for fewer weird conversations. “…big?”

The word comes out a squeak. Or it might have, except for Steve’s deep voice, which causes it to emerge instead as a squawp (which is a real thing he just made up). 

Jacob spares him a modicum of dignity. “What’s CrossFit?”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “It’s a…gym, I guess. For…lifting weights. I think. I’m not sure.” (Truthfully, every bit of trivia he has about CrossFit comes from the guy whose dick he sucked six months ago who wouldn’t stop waxing rhapsodic about his gains.)

“I don’t know anything about that,” Jacob says slowly. “Sorry.” 

"But, you must work out."

A ghost of a smile flickers across Jacob’s lips, though it’s gone as quickly as it came. “I box.”

“You box?” Steve is incredulous. There’s no way he looks like _that_ merely from boxing. Muscles on muscles on muscles don’t come from punching a bag or even another person. They come from protein shakes and boiled chicken breasts and bench presses. Jacob must be doing a lot of bench presses. (Also steroids? Yeah, definitely maybe steroids.) 

“I box,” he repeats. “So, if you want to be…big? Like me? Maybe try boxing.”

Disaster. Complete disaster. Steve hadn't even been flirting with his crush so much as wanting to talk with the guy about his training regimen, yet somehow he's failed at both. On top of that, Jacob reacted in a very heterosexual manner to the question—oblivious and confused—which is doing nothing for Steve's chances. Not that he had any, really, but a fella can dream.

“Thanks,” he says, trying not to look too glum, just as the machine beeps to remind him of why Jacob is really there. “I’ll uh. I’ll definitely try boxing.”

* * *

The next time Steve sees Jacob is Lorraine’s fault. Not in a blame-the-victim way, but if she hadn’t been yelling her head off, Jacob might never have noticed Steve getting the shit kicked out of him. Ipso facto: Lorraine is to blame.

But that was how things finished on that fateful day. How they _started_ was with a typical afternoon out: Steve and Lorraine at the movies. Some artsy-fartsy awards baity thing she’s been dying to see, which Steve merely endures, trying not to roll his eyes. Predictably, the whole thing turns out to be attractive people crying about how terrible their lives are, followed by some narcissistic fucking. 

True to form, Lorraine goes gaga for it. Because while she has been Steve's best friend since the first week of freshman year, she's also the most pretentious person he's ever met. This makes it extra fun to squabble with her as they file out of the auditorium and into the lobby, bickering about whether the use of red in the movie's final scene was symbolic or stupid. Steve finishes what he feels is a solid 'Camp Stupid' argument as they hit the sidewalk, which is when he hears somebody making a kissy-face noise in their direction. The noise is aimed at Lorraine, though they both look to find the charming thug leaning against the brick facade, tongue stuck between the V of his fingers. As if he's ever been that close to a pussy.

So then Lo says, “Steve don’t,” because she knows him too well, but shit, Steve already _is_. He’s halfway to the guy by the time she begins her protest, jabbing a finger in his face and snapping, “did you _seriously_ just do that?”

Dude's mouth curls up a sneer, and then he hears Lo repeat, "Steve, _don’t_ ,” but it’s too late because this isn’t the sort of guy that’s gonna listen to a lecture. Nope, he’s a man of action, meaning that he hauls off and punches Steve square in the nose. 

Said nose spurts a gusher, but before Steve has time to react, he's getting hauled by the collar past a broken bit of fence and into a small empty lot next to the theater. Maybe it held a bodega, once upon a time, but now it's akin to any other dark alley the world has to offer.

The guy Steve had only been attempting to yell at is at least two heads taller than him, and a good seventy pounds heavier. But Steve’s scrappy (or so he tells himself), so when the asshole calls him a faggot and lands a sucker punch to his jaw, Steve charges. Tastes the coppery tang of blood between his teeth as he flails wildly, nails catching the man’s arm to leave a nasty weal.

He receives a kick to the gut for his troubles. So now he can’t breathe, the kick sending him sprawling into the rubble, where he very nearly falls over. Somewhere over the rush of blood in his ears he can hear Lorraine screaming, telling the guy to lay the fuck off him and oh, Christ, won’t somebody _help_ them. 

The asshole is advancing. Steve steadies himself and lashes out, swinging blindly. To his surprise, his fist connects with the guy’s shoulder.

Which is when the dude goes flying. Like, ass over ankles, down for the count. A knockout punch sending him into a pile of boxes while Steve stares at his throbbing fist in shock. 

It takes him a few seconds to realize that a fourth person has joined the fracas. A person with dark hair, a navy coat, and oh-holy-shit, it’s _Jacob._ Jacob, the beef. Jacob, the boxer. Jacob, who is kicking the fucker's ass quite literally. As in one of his black boots plants itself firmly up the seam of the cockbag's pants. And maybe (probably) it catches him in the balls because he gives a whimpering little "help" as he scoots past the fence and out of their lives with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Steven!” Lorraine shouts, rushing forward to keep him from falling. 

“I’m fine,” he says around the blood dribbling from his mouth. “I had him—” Huh. Is his incisor loose? His incisor might be loose. 

“You had him on the ropes,” Jacob finishes.

Steve looks up to find him backlit by the neon glow of the marquee. His Superman in silhouette. 

“What?” Lorraine looks at Jacob. “Thank you. I mean. Who are you?” 

“Steve?” Jacob asks quietly, like he’s just now realizing who he saved. Steve can appreciate that—it’s like seeing your kindergarten teacher in the grocery store. 

“Hi, Jacob.” His voice comes out shaky. 

“You two know each other?” Lorraine asks, slim fingers gripping tight to his waist, for which he is grateful. He’s not so sure he’d be standing otherwise. 

“He’s one of my customers.” 

“Hi,” Lorraine says, and Jacob smiles at her like he means it. Because Lorraine is beautiful, and Jacob is beautiful, and beautiful people recognize members of their own species. (Sure, Lorraine is strictly sapphic, but try telling that to every oblivious straight dude that’s ever hit on her.) “I’m Lorraine.” 

“Hi, Lorraine,” he says, then turns his attention back to Steve, keen eyes surveying his broken face. “You’re bleeding pretty bad.” 

"Haven't you heard?" Lorraine asks with all the sarcasm of a person who's not entirely done being pissed. "All the martyrs are bleeding this season."

“Lo,” Steve protests. “He was being gross.” 

“And _you_ were being an aggro freak,” she counters. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you picking fights on my behalf.”

“I wasn’t _picking_ it! I was just gonna tell him—” 

“Oh, come off it. We all know Steve Rogers likes getting punched so he can feel noble and put-upon.”

“You do?” Jacob asks. 

“I don’t _like_ …" Steve manages before a wave of dizziness overwhelms him, and he drops his head low, a line of spit and blood snaking toward the sidewalk.

“Come on, Rambo,” Lorraine tuts, and suddenly Jacob is on Steve’s other side, shouldering most of the work. Which is good, because his legs are just about to give up the ghost. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

The walk to Lorraine's place passes in a blur, the adrenaline of the fight wearing off, leaving him in a hazy, miserable fog of pain, regretting both his short temper and his stupidity. He always forgets how bad it feels to lose a fight until he's on the receiving end of another beatdown. However, what he'd said to Lorraine was true: he never means to get into the scraps, he just can't keep his mouth shut, or maintain any sense of self-preservation when it comes to voicing his displeasure.

Lorraine, having deemed Jacob an acceptable companion, invites him upstairs once they reach her building. That’s how Steve finds himself sitting knee-to-knee with him on her lumpy, second-hand couch while she fetches the first aid kit. Not exactly his best look.

“Pinch the end of your nose,” Jacob offers as another gush of blood streaks its way down Steve’s philtrum and into his mouth. “That’ll help.”

“I know how to take care of a bloody nose, thanks,” he replies imperiously. It’s not as if this is his first. Still, he gives the tip of his nose a pinch, hating the gloopy feeling in his sinuses as the blood begins to clot. 

Jacob nods and looks at his hands, cowed, and Steve instantly feels terrible about being an indecorous dick. "Um. Thank you. For helping. Sorry if I made you miss your movie."

“I can see it another time. How’m I gonna walk away from a girl screaming like that?”

“Plenty of people would.” _And have_ , he doesn’t say.

Jacob's only movement is a light tapping of his gloved index finger against his leg. A nervous habit, maybe. "Someone needed help. I helped."

“Well, thanks again.” 

“You would have done the same.” 

Steve hopes that’s true, but he doesn’t have time to say it, because Lo has returned with the first aid kit. They fall into their usual roles—she presses an ice pack to his face, while he begins the nasty business of patching himself up. Alcohol, gauze, iodine, all tools of a foolhardy man’s trade. Probably Neosporin would suffice, but he’s nothing if not a masochist when it comes to paying his penance. That, and his mother’s a nurse; she’d kill him if he let something get infected. Shit, he’s gonna have to explain this to her when he gets home. That’s always a laugh riot. 

It takes ten minutes to set him straight, and another ten for his nose to finally stop bleeding. Jacob sits with them through it, making small talk with Lorraine in between her lectures about how she doesn’t need Steve’s _heroics_ to advance the cause of womankind. Women can get on just fine without Steven Grant Rogers, is all she's saying. Still, it's a good thing Jacob's there because Lorraine is originally from Texas, and Jacob is Company, which means Company Rules. And Company Rules dictate she can't tear into Steve the way she might typically have, lest she comes across as being rude in front of a guest.

During that polite, company appropriate conversation, Steve learns three things about Jacob. Number one: he is a freelance “contractor,” which lends credence to the mafia theory. Number two: he lives alone, having neither partner or pet. Number three: he is _very_ good at turning conversational topics back on the asker. Because every time Lorraine draws some small tidbit from him, he flips the switch, asking her about her art, how she and Steve met, her cats, her roommates, and a half-dozen other topics. By the time Steve is patched up, she’s given him her whole biography, while he remains a virtual stranger. It seems to have cheered her up, though, and she’s smiling when Steve does one final nose-check before declaring, “we ought to get out of your hair, Lo.”

“Unless you need help washing up?” Jacob offers, indicating the pile of bloody towels.

“Bleach. And patience,” she replies. “And a laundromat, probably. But thank you.”

“I’ll pay for the laundry,” Steve offers.

"Or you could come around tomorrow and do it for me," she replies with such a sugar-sweet drawl that he knows he's more than obligated to say yes.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Definitely.” 

"Then, can I at least walk you home?" Jacob asks Steve, the question causing Lorraine's eyebrows to shoot up her forehead. Steve wants to tell her that he doesn't mean it like _that_ , he’s just being nice and making sure he doesn’t succumb to his injuries.

“You don’t have to,” he mumbles.

“Yes, you do,” Lorraine corrects. “See that he doesn’t pick any more fights on the way.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but Jacob says, “I will,” like it’s his sacred duty. 

They say their goodbyes, and though Lorraine’s still mad, she hugs Steve tightly, then gives him what might generously be termed a love-shake. “Your mama’s gonna _kill_ you.”

“I know.” 

“Don’t you pull that shit again, Rogers. Next time, I’ll leave you to get your ass handed to you.” 

“You always say that.” 

“This time I mean it,” she replies, then leans close to whisper, “there won’t always be a good-looking savior to step in.”

Steve glances at the front door, where Jacob is waiting, to make sure he hasn’t overheard. “Lo- _rraine_! He’s _straight_.”

“Sure about that?” She asks, then sends them on their way with a smirk.

The question sticks with Steve as he and Jacob make their way outside. _Is_ he straight? Yes. Has to be. But maybe Lorraine had picked up on something Steve hadn’t? She’s got a pretty good intuition, but even if Jacob _was_ queer, he's out of Steve's league. He's a ten, and Steve's a five-point-seven on a good day.

“Can I ask you something?” Jacob says as they round the corner. 

“Uh.” Steve clears his throat. “Sure.” 

“The fella from before. He called you a faggot.” 

Technically, it had been “fucking faggot,” but Steve doesn’t feel the need to debate the semantics of homophobia. Also, is this guy a mind-reader? “He did, yeah.”

“Why’d he do that?” 

“Because dicks like him think being queer’s the worst insult you could throw at a guy.”

"Oh." Jacob nods. "I see." He says it like he's never considered such a notion, which is impossible—faggot as an insult is currency among certain people. Even if one doesn't associate with them, one certainly knows their type. “Yeah, it’s—”

“Are you?” Jacob presses.

Steve’s hackles rise. “Does it matter?”

“I…” Hesitating, he shrugs. “I guess not. I just wondered.” 

There’s no malice in it, and Steve’s shoulders slump. “Sorry. That guy just pissed me off. I’m on edge. But. Yeah. I am.” 

Jacob nods, and then, quietly: “So am I. I think.”

“You think?” Steve asks, heart beating double time. 

“It’s hard to say.” 

Steve bets it is. Must be, if you're going through some early-thirties questioning and curiosity. Cool. That's fine. Jacob isn't married to some poor woman without a clue, and there's no law saying sexuality must be set in stone during puberty. Steve's not running a support group or anything, but he knows it can be tough to ask those questions, regardless of how old you are. So, feeling like a PSA, he makes an offer. "If ah…if you need someone to talk to about that…" He means to tell Jacob about support groups and softball leagues; what comes out instead is, "we could get a drink or something?" Fuck it, better to strike while the iron is hot in that brief window before Mr. Latent Sexuality goes to a gay bar and discovers that he is filet mignon and Steve is ground chuck.

“A drink?” 

“Like, we could go on a date?”

“Oh.” Jacob’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, considering Steve the way a hangman considers a noose. “Sure.” 

The noose loosens. Steve blinks. “What, seriously?”

“…yes? Was I not supposed to agree?”

“Uh.” Steve’s heart is beating a military tattoo. “No. I mean, yes! Yes is good. It’s good you said yes.” 

Jacob fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, then clears his throat. “You should know that it’s been…a bit, since I went on a date.” 

“How long’s a bit?”

“Seventy-five years with a woman, never with a fella,” he deadpans. 

Okay, that’s funny—who knew Jacob was _funny_? Steve can work with self-deprecation and sarcasm. “Seventy-five years, huh? I better make it worth your while.” 

“I don’t think you’ll disappoint.”

Flirting! That’s _flirting_! Funny and flirting! Steve grins, biting his lip only to remember how recently it was split. “Ow, fuck. So, Friday?”

“Friday sounds just fine.” 

Five minutes later, they arrive at Steve's building, where they exchange numbers and agree on a time to meet. For their date. Which is a real, actual thing. Steve Rogers, five-point-seven out of ten and punching above his weight for the first time in his goddamn life.

“Thanks for walking me home, Jacob,” he says, palming his key and smiling through the pain of a face that feels as if it’s been through a trash compactor. Twice. 

“Anytime,” Jacob says, then hesitates. “But…there’s one thing?” 

"What?" Steve asks, suddenly worried Jacob is going to call the whole thing off.

“You keep…saying my name,” he continues, slow and unsure. “The thing is. Most people used to call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” he repeats, the moniker strange in his mouth, like some gumshoe cub reporter in an old Dick Tracy comic. But if it’s his preferred nickname name, then, well, who’s Steve to deny him? “You’ll have to tell me how you came by that one.” 

Jacob—Bucky—relaxes, expression turning from hesitation to pleasure, a genuine grin spreading across his face. It's a wonderful smile, a smile Steve could get used to. "I will. Maybe on our date."

"Bucky," Steve says again, because sure, the guy's a little strange and a lot mysterious, but who can argue with a smile like that? Plus, he's Steve's real-life hero. A guy can overlook a lot of oddness for that. "I can't wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading, and thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos on the first chapter. Work keeps me busy enough that responding to everyone individually is difficult, but please know that they keep me going when I am at the absolute end of my rope!


	3. Chapter 3

Precisely what the fuck _is_ one supposed to wear on a first date? Steve has no idea. All he knows is that his current available wardrobe falls on opposite ends of a broad spectrum: shit he wears to work, and shit he wears to get laid. (Oh, and a third category of shit he's bought to work out in, sitting unused in a pile.) But date clothes? There's nothing, and he's supposed to be meeting Bucky in twenty minutes at a bar that's at least a ten-minute walk away. 

He should probably have considered this problem earlier, but also: procrastination. A valid choice. 

So, he texts Lorraine with _SOS_ _I don’t have any clothes!_ A couple minutes later, she sends back, _yes you do. Dark jeans + white button-down w/your blue sweater. Makes your eyes POP!_

Lo is a genius. A goddess. He'll lay down an offering later because right now, he has to get dressed. (And so what if the blue sweater was in the hamper? He has Febreze. He's an adult.)

“This works,” he mutters a couple minutes later, judging himself in the mirror and feeling half-decent overall, just as his phone dings with a new text. 

It’s from Lorraine again: _wear brown belt and brown shoes do NOT wear your ugly black boots you are NOT a biker._

Steve looks at the black boots on his feet and scowls.

Three minutes after that, he steps out his front door in the belt and brown shoes, topped off with a black, puffy jacket because it's January in Brooklyn, after all. The wind is bitterly cold, tousling his artfully coiffed hair in an instant, but whatever. He looks fine. Decent. As good as he's gonna get, considering the canvas.

Bucky, on the other hand? Bucky looks like the personification of every sinful thought for which Steve’s done penance. He’s hard to miss, even from a block away, leaning against the wall outside the bar. Arms folded over his chest. Shoulders straining against the material of his familiar navy blue coat. 

It takes a second for Bucky to notice Steve, but when he does, he _smiles_ —that bright, hard-to-come-by grin—and straightens up to wave. Steve jogs the distance between them with what is no doubt a goofy smile on his face, feeling like a supreme dork. He's been teased his whole life about his weird, straight-backed run, but shit: he wants to get there. Plus, if he lingers on all the odd things he does, he'll never have time for anything else.

“Hi, Bucky,” he greets, surprised to see that using the name makes Bucky’s grin widen. Lighting him up like the goddamn sun.

“Hi, Steve,” Bucky echoes. 

“Did I keep you waiting?”

“Six minutes,” he says like he’s been counting. 

“Uh.” Steve blinks at the specificity. “Sorry. I was uh. Delayed.”

Bucky doesn’t seem bothered, just precise, and he steps to the side, opening the door like a real gentleman. “After you.”

The formality of the gesture makes Steve want to bob a curtsy or take a bow as he steps into the dimly lit bar, which is ten percent swankier than it has any right to be. Typical nü-Red Hook, with barn wood accents and mason jar chandeliers, full of hedge fund managers who still think they’re hipsters. Still, the drinks aren’t _too_ obscenely expensive, and considering he’s probably paying (he did do the asking, after all), that’s fine with him. 

Things are pretty crowded, being as it’s a Friday, but they manage to snag a table near the back. Granted, that puts them adjacent to the hallway with the bathrooms, but it is what it is. Steve’s sat in far worse places for a drink and some dick. Not that he’s getting Bucky’s dick. Or, well, maybe. If he plays his cards right.

They shed their coats and drop them onto the back of their respective chairs before sitting. Bucky, who is wearing a black sweater and black jeans (Lorraine would approve, no doubt), places both his gloved and ungloved hands in his lap and turns his attention to Steve. 

Unused to such scrutiny, Steve awkwardly fingers the cocktail menu, then speaks above the din of the crowd and the Arcade Fire song being piped in over their heads. "How was the rest of your week?"

“It’s been fine.” 

"Cool," he says, just a bit too enthusiastically, gritting his teeth because now he has to come up with another question. God, dates suck. Even dates with hot, beefy heroes. If this were a Grindr hookup, he'd just toss his head toward the bathroom, and they'd head in there. But, then, if this were a Grindr hookup, they likely would have skipped the bar altogether.

But yeah, conversation is overrated in general. Especially on dates. Finding topics to speak to while dancing around the fact that oh-yes-you-really-would like to fuck this near-stranger. It’s never been his forte—probably why he doesn’t do it much.

But then Bucky surprises him, picking up the thread by asking, “how’s your lip?”

Steve touches his tongue to the healing cut, which is no longer sore so much as tender, serving as a nasty reminder of his impetuousness. “Better. My ma’s a nurse, so she kept on me about taking care of it.”

“You live with her?” Bucky deduces.

“Yup.” Steve bristles, sure there’s a joke coming.

Instead: “I used to live with mine.” 

“What, like in high school?” he asks, pleased Bucky hasn’t gone for the obvious tease. 

“After, too.”

“When’d you cut and run?”

Bucky’s eyes shift to the side, and he hesitates before responding in a slow, measured way. “When I shipped out. I figured I’d move back home after the war, but—” he shrugs, gloved hand moving from his lap to the table. “Things change.”

“You were in the military?” Duh, Rogers. 

“Yes.” 

“Afghanistan?” Pure speculation based on his age. 

Another pause, and he nods. “I’ve been to Afghanistan.” 

“My dad was military. Army.” 

“Was?”

“Yeah. Uh. He didn’t, you know. Retire.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says softly. “I knew a lotta guys who didn’t make it back home.”

Steve frowns, shoulders desperate to tense, back itching to hunch. The death of a parent is decidedly not good first date talk. “I was really little, so I don’t…but thanks,” he says, then gropes for the first thing in his line of sight that could make a decent change of subject. “What’s uh…what’s with the glove?” 

Subtle, asshole. Real smooth move.

“Oh.” Bucky shrugs, face going blank as he pulls his hand back. That is, of course, when their waitress turns up emanating an air of disdain for their very presence. Because that’s the sort of bar this is. “Gentlemen.” 

“Hi,” Steve says to Ms. Impeccable Timing, whose bright blue Heidi braids are pinned to the crown of her disaffected head.

“You know what you want?” she asks with a slight Boston accent. 

Steve requests a Heineken because it’s cheap, but not so cheap as to seem déclassé. Bucky orders a scotch on the rocks. An expensive scotch on the rocks. Because, Steve supposes, when you’re a guy who can deposit twenty thousand dollars in one go, you have luxury tastes. 

“Food?” she asks, apathy evident. 

“Uh.” Steve glances at Bucky.

“Yes,” Bucky answers, then proceeds to order nachos _and_ egg rolls _and_ wings. Which is pretty impressive for a guy who has hardly glanced at the menu. And a ballsy first date move, all things considered. 

It’s only when Bucky glances expectantly at Steve that Steve realizes he wasn’t actually ordering for him—he wants all that for himself. “Uh. Just fries,” he says. “If you don’t mind sharing a little?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Then…yeah. Fries.” He looks up at the waitress to confirm.

“I’ll be back with your drinks,” she says, then disappears into the crowd.

“So—” Steve starts. 

"It's a prosthetic," Bucky says, cutting him off and lifting his left hand. "So, I wear the glove."

"Just the one?" Steve asks, which is possibly the stupidest thing he's ever said in his twenty-three years on the planet.

Bucky’s mouth twitches, and he nods, opposite hand giving him a wave. Unmistakably flesh and bone, the palm rough and calloused, Steve just bets. It’d feel good on his skin—like being pawed by a bear. Which is…huh. Actually. Is Bucky hairy? He seems like a guy who might be hairy.

Fuck. Nope. Best get off that particular primrose path. "Why cover it up?" he asks, which is ten percent less rude than his original inquiry. Plus, it's the truth: if Bucky lost his hand or his arm in service of his country, he shouldn't have to cover it up to make other people comfortable.

“Ah.” He shrugs, then pulls off his glove to reveal…

What the _actual_ fuck? 

Steve leans forward, eyes wide as he takes in the gleaming prosthetic. The hand itself is black—like _jet_ black. Obsidian black. It almost looks like polished stone, except it’s obviously some sort of metal. Precisely engineered plates that flex and move together, connected by thin ribbons of gold. It looks… _expensive_. As if a single finger might be worth a million bucks, and he’s got five of them. Plus whatever makes up the rest of the arm, though with the long sleeves he can’t tell how far up it goes. 

“Wow,” he says before he can stop himself.

Bucky’s fingers wiggle, and he flexes his wrist, the plates adjusting to his actions, undulating to mimic musculature. He lets Steve stare for only a second before he tugs the glove back into place and pulls down his sleeve. “It ain’t exactly inconspicuous,” he explains, moving his hand back to his lap. “The arm’s uh…well. It’s part of a pilot program, I guess you’d call it. Best not to show off.” 

“Definitely doesn’t look standard issue.” 

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Well, it's not my first prosthetic."

“How—“ Steve starts, then catches himself. “Sorry, I’m being really nosy.” 

“You say what you mean. Nothing wrong with that.” 

“Except when it ends with me getting punched.” 

“But your friend said you liked that.”

Steve laughs, mostly because he appreciates Bucky’s bouts of humor, even if he’s not one hundred percent sure it’s being done intentionally. “Lorraine thinks she’s hilarious, but she’s not.” 

"So, you don't like getting punched?"

“That’s…” he shakes his head. “Debatable.”

"Guess she'd know. You met at college?"

“Yeah,” he says, pleased he remembered that detail. “Art school.” 

“Tell me about that.” 

Steve’s more than happy to oblige. Their drinks show up halfway through his story of the first time he’d loudly disagreed with a professor and got kicked out of class for his troubles. Bucky keeps up a steady stream of questions throughout—not like an interrogation, but like he genuinely wants to know things about Steve, which is new. Past conquests have involved quick fucks and minimal small talk after, usually with preening narcissists who (if they want to chat at all) ramble on about themselves and their startups for half an hour before Steve finds any excuse to leave. Bucky’s different. He’s quiet. Curious. Has a way of opening Steve up so he doesn’t even realize it’s _happening_ until he’s recounting just how hard his ma cried at his graduation.

“It was awful,” he admits. “Having her sobbing about how proud she was, all the while feeling like a fuck up. Shit, I couldn’t get a job painting houses at that point. Still can’t.”

“But you draw anyway. You were making comics, that day I came in.” 

“Sure, I fuck around,” he offers, tamping down a smile with a long pull of his beer. “I have a comic I put up online sometimes. Nobody follows it, but it’s fun.” 

"I could…follow?" Bucky offers as if the very concept of doing so is novel.

Steve curses his Irish complexion and looks down, studying the rim of his bottle with fixed intensity. “Don’t worry about that. It’s dumb.”

“I like dumb things,” Bucky shoots back. 

Steve looks up and finds him _smirking_. “Funny. Fuckin’ wise guy over here.” 

“What? I think you’d agree it’s pretty dumb to pick fights—” 

“I don’t _pick_ them, they pick me,” he says, cheeks hot even as he grins. Christ, Bucky’s teasing gets him all gooey inside. “And I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

“Guess I’m giving it to you for free.”

Steve’s still thinking of a retort when the food shows up, putting a damper on their flirt-fight. It had been nice, though. Normal. Like they’re just…two guys on a date.

“So,” he says, reaching for a fry. “How long have you lived in Brooklyn?” 

“I grew up…” Bucky frowns, pauses. “I lived near here growing up.” 

“No shit? Where’d you go to school?” Because yeah, he’s older than Steve, but maybe he has younger siblings. 

A blank mask slides across Bucky’s face, which is more than a bit disconcerting. “I don’t remember,” he mumbles.

"Uh…" Steve doesn't know what to say—recollecting where you went to high school isn't exactly higher-level math. "Okay."

“I have, uh. Sorry. After my accident? With…” He raises his prosthetic to his temple. “It fucked with my head. I have memory problems.” 

Well, fuck. Steve Rogers, once again proving what a Grade-A asshole he can be. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“Aw c’mon,” he says, huffing a breath. “Don’t do that.” 

Bucky looks wounded. “Do what?” 

“Don’t assume I’m taking the blame because I apologized. Can’t I just be sorry it happened?” 

“Ah.” He smiles. “Sure. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve mimics.

There's a beat, and then they're both laughing like it's the beginning of a rom-com montage. Steve hates it but also likes it a lot. Because he likes Bucky a lot, and because this first date isn't turning out half as awkward as he'd feared. Nerves fade, in the end, and hot, mysterious sides of beef end up just being cute guys with memory problems named Bucky. The sorta guy you'd get along with even if you _didn’t_ want to suck his dick (but also you still want to suck his dick. A lot. Respectfully.)

Also? You definitely want a second date.

In the interest of pursuing that noble goal, Steve reaches across the table as their laughter fades, dropping his right hand over Bucky’s. The touch makes Bucky jump, but he doesn’t pull back, a slow smile spreading across his face. 

“I uh…” Steve starts, clearing his throat. “We should do this again sometime.” 

“Sure.” Bucky raises a brow. “Does that mean we’re done now?” 

“What? No! I’m just…” he shrugs. “Thinking ahead. Planning.” 

“Alright, tactician.” 

“Something like that.” 

“I can’t remember the last time I had a second date. Or…” He pauses, furrowing his brow. “That’s not true. We went to Coney Island.” 

“You went all the way to Coney Island for a _second_ date?” 

"Sure. We rode the Cyclone. She was—" He frowns, blankness settling over him again. "I brought flowers to her mother. Then…at the end, I kissed her goodnight on her stoop." There's distance between them now, Bucky's eyes gone glassy and unfocused. "She was holding the bear I won for her. And she said it wasn't fair that we wouldn't get to go out again, because—"

He stops mid-sentence. Shakes his head and looks at Steve, as if waiting for him to fill in the blank space. Steve has nothing to offer, and after a moment, Bucky speaks again. "I don't remember much of the park. Only…the lights. The rides, and…" He blinks. "I'm sorry."

“If it helps,” Steve says, “you don’t have to worry about taking me to Coney Island. I get sick on roller coasters.” 

“It’s still there, though, right? The Cyclone?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so.” Honestly, though, he’s not sure—he hasn’t been to Coney Island since he was a kid. 

“Good,” Bucky says, the faraway look creeping back into his eyes. “Shit, so much changed, you know?” 

“How many tours?”

“A lifetime,” he says. “Two, maybe. I don’t know…” 

Steve doesn’t press, just squeezes the back of his hand. “But you’re done now, right? You’re not…you’re out?” 

Bucky reaches for his drink and takes a measured swallow. “Yes.” 

“And now, you ah—you said contracting? You do that now?”

“What I’m doin’ right now—” He shakes his head. “Right now, I gotta piss.” 

Steve recognizes a deflection when he hears one, but he can’t argue with a biological urge. As Bucky disappears down the hall, a part of him—the meanest, smallest part—worries that maybe Bucky’s ditching him. That he’s slipping out the back door because Steve isn’t all that interesting. Like maybe he’s been regretting the date since first sitting down, and now that Steve’s pushing for personal details, he’s _really_ regretting it. 

The minor panic isn’t helped by the fact that it takes nearly ten minutes for Bucky to return, but he _does_ return, sliding into his seat with an apologetic shrug. “There was a line.”

"Oh," Steve says like he's unbothered. Like a cool person. Like he hasn't been working himself into a lather over nothing. "You want another drink?"

Bucky shakes his head. “Too much alcohol doesn’t sit well with me. I got—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. 

“Got what?”

“Nothing. Hey, I meant to ask, what’d your ma say about your face? Was she steamed?” 

“What? Oh, she was uh…” Steve pauses, searching for the right word. “Apoplectic?”

Bucky snorts. "You could use that in a crossword. Your face looks better, though. I was gonna tell you earlier, but uh…" He shrugs, obviously a bit unsure about bestowing compliments on other members of his gender. Late in life sexuality crisis, indeed.

"You and Lo patched me up pretty good, and like I said, my ma's a nurse."

Bucky nods, bringing them full-circle to their first topic of conversation. “Must be nice, living at home. Having her around.”

Oh, Steve is in such trouble. Handsome, funny, and doesn’t have a problem with reedy little guys who live with their mothers. He is falling hard, and he is falling fast. “Most people think it’s pathetic.” 

"Most people don't know what the fuck they're missing." Bucky holds Steve's gaze steady for only a second before dropping his eyes. "Ah, you want this?" By 'this,' he means the last egg roll.

“You can have it.”

Bucky takes the food, and Steve is struck with the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss his grease-slicked mouth. Damn, it must be libido o'clock.

“What?” Bucky asks, and Steve realizes he’s been staring directly at his lips. 

"Nothing. Just…ah. You're, you know." Entrancing. Gorgeous. Sexy. "You have plum sauce on your chin."

“Oh.” Bucky reaches for a napkin. “This is really good. You guys got good food now.” 

“What, they didn’t have overpriced appetizers the last time you lived in Brooklyn?”

“Not like these. We had better delis, though.”

He says it with such wistfulness that it sounds like he’s lamenting a hundred years ago, rather than ten at most. Steve has to laugh. “What, they don’t cut the roast beef right anymore?”

Bucky raises a brow, then informs him how, precisely, the nearest deli keeps fucking up his Reuben. The conversation winds, another twenty minutes passing before the waitress stops by wearing the frown of a woman who wants her tip and to turn over the table.

“Take care of this whenever you’re ready,” she hints, dropping their check.

Bucky reaches for the paper, and Steve yelps, “wait!”

“What?” 

“I asked you out.”

“So?”

“So, I should pay.” 

“Is that a rule?”

“It’s—” he frowns. “It’s not a _rule_.” 

“Don’t worry about it, then.” Bucky pulls out his wallet, placing seven twenties atop the receipt. Considering the total, it’s a hell of a tip. 

“I’ll pay next time,” he mutters. 

“Sure,” he says, knocking their feet together beneath the table. “Ready to go?”

Steve is, indeed, so they stand, pulling on their coats, the little voice in the back of his mind urging him to go for broke with every passing second. Just in case. Because if their second date goes badly, he won’t get another chance to, well, enjoy the spoils. So, when they step into the bitter evening air, he decides he might as well test the waters. “Well…” 

“This was nice,” Bucky says, ever-polite.

“Yup. So maybe you wanna…” he trails off, giving Bucky a pointed, deliberate look.

Bucky blinks. “Wanna what?”

“Ah, well. My ma gets off work at midnight, so we can’t go to mine…but if _you_ wanna—” 

Another blink. “If I wanna what?” 

"Errr. Continue things at a secondary location?" he offers, glad for the bracing wind, since Bucky might mistake his red cheeks for a chill.

Bucky frowns, more confused than intrigued. “You want to come over to my place? Why?” 

“For a nightcap,” he says lamely, the euphemism easily understandable but just as easily missed. 

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, sure, if that’s what you want.” 

Shit. It’s not overwhelming enthusiasm, but if it means the chance to spend more time together, Steve will take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Part two of the date will be here next week. 
> 
> Since this fic was created for Marvel Trumps Hate, I would be remiss not to mention that this week, I'm trumping hate by donating to the Bail Project. Maybe you'll consider doing something similar?


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky lives close to Steve, which Steve only knows because Bucky wrote his address down the day he signed up for his account. Meaning it’s hard not to let on that he knows where they’re going while keeping pace with Bucky and ignoring the fact that it’s fucking freezing. The temperature has taken a sharp dip into sub-arctic (or so it seems), so his thin coat and gloveless hands do nothing to keep him from shivering like a nervous chihuahua. Being as those guys aren’t the most attractive of dogs, he forces his spine to stay straight and clamps his teeth together, determined not to speak, lest his teeth start clacking like a possessed marionette. 

Because he is an adult. On a date. Heading for a nightcap. He doesn’t need the other half of said date feeling sorry for him when he’s hoping to ease his way into make-out-town. And after that? Who knows! A dance in the direction of blowjob-ville? It could happen. So the last thing he wants Bucky thinking about is how sharp his teeth are as they chatter away in his head. 

He stays stiff all the way to Bucky’s building, which isn’t much of anything—an unassuming grey door tucked next to a nondescript laundromat. Steve wouldn’t have given it a second glance, but when Bucky pulls up and pauses, he stops with him, waiting as he retrieves a key from his pocket. 

"Key sticks," he explains, pushing it into the lock before shoving his right shoulder hard against the door, which squeaks open, allowing them into a tiny vestibule. There's hardly enough room to turn around, the air cloying and heavy with the scents of detergent, dryer sheets, and spices from a thousand meals mixed together.

“S’nice,” Steve manages, which isn’t strictly true. It is, however, warmer inside than out, which leads to a natural biological reaction of violent shivering. Chihuahua, meet frightened rabbit. So fucking sexy.

“You’re cold,” Bucky observes needlessly, because water is also wet. 

Steve's shoulders inch toward his ears, and he mutters a "yeah," before bracing for the inevitable coddling. It happens a lot when you're small. People want to protect you. To save you. To treat you like you're helpless. Which is all well and good when you're getting your ass handed to you by a bully, not so much in the bedroom.

To his surprise, Bucky just gives a nod, then turns to walk up the stairs. Steve blinks, smiles, and follows, the linoleum-lined treads squeaking under their combined weight. The second floor boasts two doors—one straight ahead, one to the left—marked 1A and 1B. Bucky heads for the former, ushering Steve into his place. 

Which is, uh. 

Terrible. 

There's no other word for it. Bucky's apartment is genuinely depressing for a guy with close to fifty-thousand dollars in cash sitting untouched in his bank account. Not because it's small, or run down—Steve's lived in his share of small, run-down places—but because it's _sad_. Cold. Lonely. Lacking even the slightest spark of homeyness. It's a single room, maybe ten feet by fifteen, the peeling paint on the walls a gunmetal grey. One corner holds a makeshift kitchenette, cabinets hanging at weird angles, like they were never fitted correctly. The stove looks clean, at least, if beaten down. Same with the fridge, which is green, and wouldn't look out of place in a morgue, boasting a massive dent on the freezer door and a metal handle hanging on by one screw.

As for the rest of it? Shit, there's not much. Most of the space is taken up by a mattress with a comforter haphazardly strewn across it, accompanied by two pillows and plain, navy sheets. The only other piece of furniture is a Formica-topped table shoved against one wall with two vinyl chairs tucked underneath and a closed notebook sitting on top. There's no dresser or bookshelf to be seen, but Bucky's constructed shelves from plywood and cinderblocks, which line the wall next to the mattress. They're sparsely populated, holding clothes and a few knick-knacks, though nothing that feels particularly personal. (Save for, oddly, a carved goat figurine, which stands regal and out of place on the top shelf closest to the bed.) Against the opposite wall, Bucky's placed a weight bench and a set of dumbbells, which, okay. Those, at least, make sense.

Mostly, the apartment feels neglected and unloved. Some things would be easy fixes—the cabinet pulls, the fridge handle, cleaning grime off the barred windows—but Bucky hasn't made an effort. The worst part is that it _could_ be better. The place has good bones, as it were, with a scratched parquet floor that would be decent, were it refinished. Hell, there's even crown molding running around the ceiling, albeit covered with a thick layer of the same grey that coats the walls. A scraper and a Saturday afternoon are all it would take to fix that, though. Give the place a little dignity back.

His thoughts are uncharitable, he knows, but he’s not saying them out loud, schooling his face while Bucky locks the door behind them. Once the deadbolt is in place, he crosses the room to where a derelict space heater sits near the mattress, flipping a switch to bring it to life. The faint orange glow is a beacon, and Steve instinctively takes a step closer. 

“I got a radiator,” Bucky says in that quiet way of his, indicating an ancient beast of cast iron beneath the window. “But it takes a while. This is quicker.” 

“Oh. Well, thanks—” 

“Come a little closer.” 

He’s holding out his right hand when he says it, and Steve doesn’t hesitate, crossing the room in five short steps, the warmth an immediate balm against his calves. Bucky gives him a crooked grin, then drops to his knees. Steve’s brain stutters to a complete halt, momentarily, only then Bucky tugs him down, too.

So, not _that_ , then. 

Instead, Bucky reaches for his hands, rubbing both of them briskly in the heater's buzzy warmth. Physiology once again kicks in, Steve's shivering picking up as his body seeks equilibrium. Still, it doesn't feel like being coddled, just Bucky being practical and efficient.

“Thanks,” he mumbles when he’s sure his teeth won’t knock together.

“You should have worn gloves,” Bucky says, but it’s a statement of fact rather than an admonition. 

“Probably,” he agrees, looking at their entwined hands, the gesture intimidating in its intimacy. “Um…” 

“Did you want a drink, like you said?” 

“No,” he replies, instinct taking over as he steps outside his body. A casual observer of his own gutsiness as he surges up, mashing his lips against Bucky’s in a kiss that’s two parts gratitude and six parts gumption. 

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. _Certainly_ doesn’t kiss back.

Crap. Steve considers flinging himself on the heater in an attempt at self-immolation. He breaks the kiss instead, cheeks gone red hot. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Once again, no response from Bucky, who has gone wide-eyed. As if he’s never been kissed before. As if he doesn’t even know _how_ to kiss. 

Which: duh. Maybe—just _maybe_ —he's freaked out because he's been blown up and lost an arm, and Steve just practically jumped him. A little warning would have been nice—Steve Rogers: pushy asshole extraordinaire.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, trailing off as Bucky's eyes drift to that blank place again, and he lifts his right hand to his mouth. Touches the spots Steve's lips touched, dream-like and not _really_ there. It’s disconcerting, Steve thinks, to catch a glimpse of that unknowable thing buried beneath Bucky’s chiseled cheekbones and charm.

Reverie breaking, Bucky blinks twice, lowering his hand and focusing his full attention on Steve. “You kissed me.” 

"I uh. Yeah. I'm sorry—" That's his third apology in less than thirty seconds. Knocking it out of the park by anyone's standards, indeed.

Bucky grins, and the room grows warmer. "It's been a long time since anyone kissed me."

“Oh.” Steve chances a smile. “I thought maybe you—” 

But then Bucky’s kissing _him_. Matching Steve's surging awkwardness with his own—teeth crashing, noses bumping, neither timing their breathing quite right. It's sweet and earnest, and Steve doesn't waste a second before he kisses back, instinct taking over as he wraps his arms around Bucky's neck to enjoy every bit of that kiss: his dry lips, chapped by the wind, the remnants of the chill night air lingering on their skin, the way Bucky's scruff feels when it drags roughly against his jaw. Bucky, conversely, can't seem to figure out what he wants to do with his hands, eventually settling both on Steve's waist, the touch a whisper that might hold a promise. Steve sighs, the tip of his tongue tasting Bucky's pout. Bucky makes a noise like it's his first time seeing the sun, lips parting, allowing Steve in. Not too much, not too fast, but it's _good_. He tastes like the scotch he’d been sipping, and Steve presses his advantage, fingers catching on the elastic holding his hair in place to tug it free. 

When they finally surface, Bucky looks happy, a dazed, pleased smile on his face. “I didn’t know you wanted to kiss me,” he offers, the sheer ludicrousness of the statement making Steve laugh. 

“I’ve uh…I’ve wanted to kiss you since—” He hesitates, the truth catching in the back of his throat.

“Since?” Bucky presses, eyes bright.

“Since the day you opened your account?” The words come out in one muttered mumble, and he can’t quite bring himself to look up, eyes fixed on what he thinks must be a cigarette burn on the parquet. 

“Oh.” Which is when Bucky hooks his finger beneath Steve’s chin and draws him into their third kiss of the evening. 

And that third kiss? It takes the cake. It's a good kiss. A solid kiss. It occurs to Steve, as he kisses that kiss, in all its innocent offering, that he might have to be the one to take the lead. Because while Bucky is undoubtedly the best-looking guy he's ever kissed, he's also seemingly at sea with the whole kissing thing.

Meaning that Steve’s going to have to be the suave one. The debonair, experienced one. And in his debonair, experienced opinion, they’re wearing far too many clothes. Namely, their coats. So he focuses his attention on Bucky’s buttons, undoing the top three, then pushing the material back so he can kiss his way down Bucky’s neck. Mouthing at the newly exposed area while his fingers keep fumbling with buttons. Christ, the _sounds_ Bucky’s making—he’s sensitive there.

Pulling back, he checks in, pleased to see that Bucky's lips are parted, eyes gone glassy. Not the faraway look, though, but a familiar one. A human look: want and desire alongside a certain worried frailty. As if he wants desperately to do the _right_ thing. Steve’s seen that look before, and it makes him smile as he takes off his own coat. 

Once they’re down to their sweaters, Bucky gives him a once over. “Warm enough?” he asks, and fuck, he’s _teasing_.

“Could be warmer,” Steve shoots back, reaching for his gloved hand. “Can I take this off?” 

Bucky looks at his hand like he’s forgotten he’s wearing the glove at all. “Sure.”

So Steve does, tossing it onto their coats then going back to Bucky’s neck. He really likes that whole area—the prickle of his stubble and the corded muscles beneath his skin—so he bites down, not too hard, but hard enough to provoke a reaction.

Turns out, Bucky likes being bitten. His hands, once more floating in the vicinity of Steve's hips, land with a _squeeze_ and a hitch and a hum. Steve sinks his teeth deeper. Bucky groans and moans and _shit_ , the noises are gonna be a real problem. Most guys aren’t big on the sweet non-verbal humming—they’re all dirty talk out of whatever porn they jerked to the night before: take it, suck it, lick it, fuck it. A veritable Bop-It’s worth of repetitive vernacular that’s never struck Steve as particularly sexy. But, like, _noises_? Sighs and shifts and whimpers and moans? Yeah, he’s _living_ for that. Especially because Bucky’s so powerful, but it doesn’t take much to get him falling apart. 

Steve could make plans around that. Namely, because he likes being in charge, having always had an issue with ceding control in the bedroom. Guys who look like him are generally expected to roll over and beg for it, but he's nothing if not someone who lives to subvert expectations.

By the time he's finished with Bucky's neck and sitting back on his heels, he's done enough damage to leave a bruise. It's not visible yet, just a red mark sucked into the skin, but it'll show up by morning, he's sure. Bucky's hands follow him, fingers hooking into his belt loops, the metal hand just as dextrous as its twin. Steve can't help fixating on it—the way Bucky's fingers navigate the nimble hold. Curiosity makes him want to take it apart and figure out all the gears and drives and servos so he can see what makes it tick. He's no engineer, but part of him will always be the kid busting open his grandmother's toaster just to see how it works. Shit, that's probably what drew him to art in the first place: breaking things down into the component parts that create a whole.

“Steve?” Bucky says, and he realizes that he’s been staring. 

“Sorry, sorry—“ 

“Do you want me to put the glove back on?” Bucky sounds unsure. Damn it to hell. Steve is an asshole. Shaking his head, he does the only thing he can think of to salvage the situation by taking Bucky’s prosthetic hand, bringing it to his lips, and pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. 

“No.” 

Bucky sighs like he _felt_ that kiss. Which is impossible, and stupidly sentimental—the hand is metal, after all. Releasing his hold, Steve leans in to press their mouths together, starting tenderly but deepening things fast. Bucky’s kissing back more and more, which he takes as a good sign, so he scoots forward until they’re flush together, the heat of his body overwhelming. Who needs a space heater with a human furnace nearby? 

Dropping a hand to Bucky’s chest, he discovers something rigid beneath his palm. More metal? As if…

Wow. As if the arm ends at his shoulder. Which, obviously, it does. Whatever accident Bucky had suffered must have been awful, to cause that kind of damage. Steve can’t even begin to imagine the pain of recovery and rehabilitation. Honestly, he’s not sure he could be that brave—willing to do the work even when it’s hard. He thinks Bucky’s amazing, and his fingers tighten against the ridge where metal meets skin. 

Bucky stiffens at the touch, heartbeat quickening. Shit. Way to make him feel awkward _again_ , Rogers. 

“My knees hurt,” Steve mumbles, hoping to distract. “Let’s lie down?” 

It's not subtle. Bucky doesn't seem to mind, and within a minute, they're stretched out on the mattress. Kissing. And, hey, if making out in that new location means that Steve's leg ends up between Bucky's thighs, his perfectly-average-erection making its presence known? Well, that's just a thing that happens.

Friction would be good, though, so he shifts his weight, which brings him the realization that Bucky’s hard, too. Or, okay, not _hard_. He’s halfway there. Maybe two-thirds. But there’s definitely _something_ , and when Steve rolls his hips, he’s rewarded with a moan and Bucky’s right hand grabbing his ass. Hard. 

Fucking _excellent_. Except Bucky releases the hold almost instantly, as if he’s been scorched. “Sorry,” Bucky mutters. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

“Uh…” Steve lifts his head. “Why?” 

“That’s…I’m being…I don’t mean to take advantage.” 

Steve blinks. Are they gonna go down to a Sock Hop and dance with Frankie and Annette? Is Bucky Sandra Dee? “It’s fine. I’m good.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t want to be…I’m…I haven’t. With a man. I don’t…I don’t _think_ I have?” 

Once again, Steve is reminded of what a dick he can be when he’s horny. Because he _knew_ that. Knows that. Knows that this is all new for Bucky, and yet there he goes, rubbing up on him like a dog in heat. “Right. I…well. For the record, you’re not going too fast for me. But I’m sorry if I am. For you. If I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” 

Except he did. Typical fuck-up Steve, leaving both of them at a loss for words because Bucky’s upset and now they’re stuck there. Living in the after of what had been such a promising before. 

“I uh.” Clearing his throat, Steve disentangles himself. “Maybe I should go.” Aborting the mission seems the best course of action. 

Bucky frowns as Steve gets to his feet. “I don’t—” he shakes his head. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

Well, hey, that’s not exactly a plea for him to stay. Steve can take a hint. “It’s not that far,” he mutters, groping for his coat and finding Bucky’s instead. 

“But—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he snaps, because obviously when you make your traumatized, late-in-life sexual awakening date feel awkward, you should _also_ be a snitty punk when they're just trying to be considerate.

Bucky frowns and sits up, putting his hickey right in Steve’s line of sight. Insult to injury and all that. Fuck, it had been going so _well_. “I’m sorry if—ah. Yeah.” 

“It’s fine, Bucky,” he says again with thirty percent less dickishness. “I forgot you hadn’t done this before, and I was—” 

“I want to kiss you again,” he interrupts. “Soon. And I don’t want you to go.” 

Steve freezes with his zipper halfway up. “You don’t?” 

"I'm lousy at talking," he says, voice going tight. "My thoughts get mixed up in my head. But I know that I like having you here. In my bed. But while…well, I don't remember _everything_. But I do recall that sometimes when things go too fast with someone? That person ah, tends not to stay for a second round.” 

Steve wishes his jacket had a hood so he could hide in it. “Jeez,” he mumbles, because that’s a lot of talking from a guy who claims he’s lousy at it. “Yeah. That’s…you’re not wrong.” Except that in Steve’s experience, fast is fine. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Or sir, as it were. But that experience hasn’t gotten him much of anywhere, so he supposes maybe he should listen to the guy who seems to be interested in more than a fuck and duck.

“If you could stay,” Bucky continues slowly. “We can just kiss. I think I’d like that.”

So, that’s how Steve ends up back on the mattress.

* * *

Hours later, he wakes from a shallow sleep to find himself trapped by a pair of strong arms. Bucky’s arms. Pinning Steve against his chest. Oh, Jesus. The snuggling had seemed like a good idea when they were falling asleep, but it’s a lousy way to wake up. He feels disgusting—covered in sweat, dry-mouthed and thirsty, thanks to the combination of the still-on space heater, the finally working radiator, and Bucky’s surface-of-the-sun body temperature.

He tries not to disturb Bucky as he clambers off the mattress, feeling around the floor to get his bearings. The bathroom door stands ajar, kitty-corner from the mattress, and he lets himself in, taking a quick piss before cupping his hand beneath the faucet for a drink. 

Mercifully, the water runs clear and tastes decent straight out of the tap. He’s on his third mouthful when he feels the tell-tale vibration of his phone in his pocket. Retrieving it, he’s dismayed to discover two things: it’s one in the morning, and his mother is home from work. Her shift ended at twelve, meaning that she’s arrived at the apartment to find him missing, hence the anxious _where are you_?! text he’s just received. 

Ah, fuck. He's usually pretty good about keeping her posted on his whereabouts, but then he doesn't often spend the night with his conquests, preferring to kick them out or kick himself out, depending.

He could, he supposes, just leave. Slip out the door while Bucky's still sleeping. But as he exits the bathroom, he finds he doesn't want to. Not when Bucky looks so inviting, chest rising and falling beneath the scant weight of his scratchy comforter. So, keeping one eye on Bucky all the while, he taps a message to his mother.

> _Staying w/a friend. See you tmw. I’ll bring breakfast_.

Sure, that will make her think he’s staying with Lorraine, but it’s not _technically_ a lie. He caps it with two heart emojis, then returns to Bucky, who does a decent job of pretending he’s still asleep while Steve gets comfortable. Steve appreciates the effort, and only minds a little when Bucky sighs, turns on his side, and reaches his right arm out to pull him close once more. 

There are worse ways to wake up than warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's following along and leaving lovely comments!


	5. Chapter 5

Someone, somewhere, has probably written a well-researched, scientifically-backed paper about the impossibility of getting a good night's sleep the first time you stay over with someone new. If they haven't, Steve thinks they should, and that he'd make a pretty good test subject. Because he has spent the night drifting in and out of fitful fades of twenty or thirty minutes at a time, waking to stare at cracks in an unfamiliar ceiling, dimly lit by the glow of a too-close streetlamp through uncurtained windows, beneath sheets that smell nothing like his own.

Bucky, meanwhile, sleeps soundly. But then, it's his apartment. He probably likes his sheets made from a soft, jersey material that feels like sleeping inside a giant t-shirt. Again: okay, but not home.

At four o'clock, Bucky gets up and heads to the bathroom. When he comes back, they kiss a little, but not too much, both of them too tired to trade more than a peck. Still, it's nice, the kissing—beats staring at nothing. Passes the time, but then it's over too soon as Bucky drifts away again.

It's only when dawn breaks, and a truck starts beeping in the street that Steve decides he's done. He likes Bucky, but he's gotten two hours of real sleep, and he wants his own bed and pillow. None of this is Bucky's fault, but it's why Steve doesn't often spend the night with anyone. So, he sits up and yawns, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them so he can rest his cheek against his knees.

“Y’alright?” Bucky murmurs, remarkably alert for someone just waking up. 

“Mmmhmm,” he says, though that’s not _wholly_ accurate. His eyes hurt from keeping his contacts in, his head's sore, and he's prone to pissiness in the morning. But, again, not Bucky's fault, meaning that he needs to suck it up and put on a friendly face for the guy who made the mistake of inviting Sourpatch McCrabface into his bed. "Truck woke me up."

"Ah." Bucky shifts, and then his hand is on Steve's lower back, warm and kind, making him smile despite his situation. "Sorry. Delivery guy. I'm used to it."

“Don’t be sorry. I uh…I’m gonna go, though.” 

“Oh.” It’s hard to tell if Bucky is disappointed. 

Steve clears his throat, knowing he needs to check in on future things, which is one of his least favorite activities. Hence why he rarely does it. "Still up for hanging out again sometime, though? Maybe?"

“Absolutely.”

There’s no way not to feel at least a little bit pleased about that. Stretching his legs, Steve twists around to look at Bucky, who makes a goddamn picture, all rumpled and bleary-eyed, with the hickey Steve gave him already…huh. Yellowing. Like it’s a week old rather than a couple hours. Strange. “Awesome,” he says. “What’s your week looking like?”

Bucky’s face falls. “I’m actually traveling for work.” 

“Oh. You wanna just play it by ear?” Which is, frankly, not his preferred way of playing it. Once bitten, twice shy. Ten times bitten, fuck right off with that. Don’t say you’re gonna text and then not text, is all he’s saying. Crushing disappointment isn’t a good look. 

“No,” Bucky replies. “I’ll make it a point to be back by Sunday.” 

That’s a definitive answer, and Steve laughs. “Why Sunday?”

“Because that’s when we’ve got a date at the Brooklyn Museum.”

He grins. “Wait, what?”

“You said, last night. About the uh…the sculptures.” 

Had he said that? Sure, maybe. Somewhere in the steady stream of chatter, he might have mentioned an exhibit he'd wanted to see. It had been a passing comment—hardly worth noting. But Bucky had noted it all the same.

“I figured,” Bucky continues. “Maybe he’s gonna ask me for another date, or maybe this one’s going lousy and he won’t. But just in case you _did_ ask, I was thinking that’s what we should do. Yeah?” 

Steve can’t keep his grin from widening as he leans down to kiss the corner of Bucky’s upturned mouth, morning breath be damned. “Sunday sounds good,” he murmurs, and then they’re really kissing again, deep and sweet for at least a minute. Bucky’s still smiling when he pulls away, eyes following Steve as he reaches for his shoes. “Is it at least a fun trip?” he asks, tugging on his laces.

“Hmm?”

“Your work thing. My boss just went to a conference, but it was only in Stamford. Who wants to go to _Stamford_?” 

“Nobody, from how you tell it. Mine’s nothing exciting.” 

Steve waits for more, but Bucky doesn’t offer. Which, yeah, details are probably a touchy subject for drug lord mafia prostitutes, or whatever necessitates working with large amounts of cash. That should worry Steve more, but he can’t quite bring himself to give a shit. Not when all signs are pointing to Bucky being a decent guy, whatever his day job might be. 

Finishing with his shoes, he stands with only a little grunt of effort, because he is healthy, hale, hearty, and definitely doesn't need to get more cardio into his routine. "Well…" he starts, reaching for his coat, just as Bucky says, "wait!"

Steve waits, zipping up while Bucky rises and walks to his cinderblock shelves, retrieving a shoebox. He rummages through it for a couple seconds before producing a pair of black gloves, presenting them to Steve with a shrug. "It's fuckin' cold out there." Which yeah, there's frost on the windowpanes, and Steve has a way to walk. As gestures go, it's saccharine sweet, but he's touched all the same.

“Thank you.” He pulls the gloves on and finds them massive, but warm, the wool soft and cozy, left thumb slightly longer than the right. Factory rejects, maybe. “These are nice.” 

“I made ‘em,” Bucky says, because apparently there are a million and five ways Steve can be surprised by this motherfucker. 

“You _made_ them?” 

“Yeah, it’s—” he holds up his left hand. “When I was learning how to use this? The person who made it for me said I needed to work on dexterity. Fine motor skills. And at the time, I was having all these…” He trails off, a smile quirking one side of his face. “My ma used to knit a lot, ‘cause me and my sister were always needing socks or scarves or sweaters. I figured it was something I could learn. So I did.” 

“Your ma must be thrilled.” 

“Oh.” His face falls. “She’s uh. She’s been gone a while. But uh. Yeah. She woulda been.” 

Shit. “I’m sorry.” He should have known better than to assume, considering his own lifetime of oh-no-actually-my-dad’s-dead moments. 

“It’s…it was a long time ago. Still uh…feels like it was yesterday, sometimes.” 

Steve nods, though it’s more empathetic than sympathetic—he doesn’t remember his father well, and while he loved his grandparents, that’s not quite the same. His only real barometer for parental grief is imagining what life would be like if his mother wasn’t in it. That thought is enough to send his belly dropping to the floor in terror, so he doesn’t imagine it often. “Thank you for the gloves,” he says softly. “I’ll bring ‘em back on Sunday.” 

“Nah,” Bucky replies, waving away the offer. “They’re yours. The thumbs aren’t good, and I got a half-dozen other pairs tucked away.” 

"Thanks for giving me your rejected thumb gloves, then," he teases, leaning on his toes for one last kiss because usually, he's not a fucking romantic, but the sheer classiness of Bucky and his homemade knitwear might turn him into one.

* * *

He can still taste Bucky on his lips as he bursts onto the street like the lead in some screwball comedy where he's the dippy heroine, and Bucky's the handsome stranger, and oh, yeah, he is in _way_ over his head here.

“Fuck _you_ very much," he sing-songs at the still-beeping delivery truck before heading toward home. The early morning walk is pleasant, despite the temperature. Buoyed along by a combination of exhaustion, giddiness, and the relative quiet of his neighborhood, he's practically floating by the time he reaches his block. The smell of the corner bakery beckons and he stops in to buy doughnuts for later because he's not hungry now, but he will be, and he promised his mother breakfast.

From there, it's a short walk and two flights of stairs to his front door, which used to be his grandparents' front door. Steve's mother had been all of two years old when Siobhan and Jack McLaughlin first rented the third-floor apartment where they'd remained until old age and infirmity claimed them. Sarah left briefly for love and marriage at twenty-four, though she hadn't gone far—a studio three blocks east, with her new husband and a baby on the way. Steve has no recollections of that studio, though it was where he'd spent the first two years of his life.

Until Joseph Rogers came home in a box. 

Loss, grief, and money troubles forced the newly-widowed Sarah back into her parents' home, which is where they've been ever since. The stability of home has endured through the loss of both his grandparents and the gentrification of their block. Thank fuck for rent control—he isn't sure where they'd have ended up otherwise. They're the longest-lasting tenants, save for the landlady on the ground floor. The second has seen a rotating cast of characters, which is currently occupied by five errant hipsters, which means loud music and marijuana smoke drifting up the fire escape. There are worse neighbors to have, Steve supposes. At least they're nice.

He lets himself into their rabbit warren of a home, kicking off his shoes by the door. The building had once been someone's home—a grand mansion for a minor robber baron—but much like Mrs. Washington's brownstone, it had been subdivided over the years. Split up and sublet into apartments that make little sense in terms of layout. Viewed from above, the floor plan would be a rectangle split down the middle by a load-bearing wall. The left side of the rectangle holds the front door, which opens onto a long, narrow hallway. The single bathroom is visible from the tiny entryway, with the arched doorway to their cramped and homey galley kitchen just beyond. Turning right from the kitchen, at the top of the opposite half of the rectangle, is the dining nook, dominated by a bay window that holds their rattle-trap of an air conditioning unit. During the summer, when it gets so goddamn hot neither of them can breathe, they sleep in here, laid out on an air mattress. If Steve had to guess, he would bet the nook was once a bedroom, probably for some fussy heiress, when the house was a house instead of their home.

The wall between the nook and adjoining room used to stretch to the ceiling, but some enterprising developer has cut it in half, allowing sunlight in further. They've optimistically called the narrow area beyond the half-wall a living room, but it's really just a wide hallway where they've stuffed a couch, an armchair, and a television, with a couple feet to walk in between. Beyond that, railroad-style, is Sarah's windowless bedroom, followed by Steve's. Meaning he has to pass through hers to get to his, and yeah, it's not ideal, but his room is the nicer of the two. In its day, it might have been a parlor, and before it was his, it had been his grandparents'. As a kid, he'd slept with Sarah, or the living room, depending, but once they'd passed, she'd insisted that he take the space. Her reasoning was that she worked nights, so she'd prefer the windowless inner bedroom in service of her strange sleep schedule. Steve thinks she was so caught up in the throes of raw grief that she couldn't stomach the thought of sleeping in her parents' bed.

Now, years on, their odd arrangement holds, despite Steve's endless protestations that Sarah ought to switch to both the day shift and the better room. Her hours have been a point of contention between them for years now—he's of the opinion that she's too old and essential to work so many nights. She, conversely, believes that forty-eight is still pretty goddamn spry and that she's responsible for taking just as many shitty shifts as those nurses who work for her.

The truth lies somewhere in between: she’s an insomniac who likes being contrary. 

She and Steve have that in common. 

Thus, he is utterly unsurprised to find her awake when he enters the living room, curled up on the squashy sofa next to a half-eaten bowl of cereal. Considering her shift ended at midnight and it’s just now gone seven, she’s been puttering around for hours, despite having to be back at work by noon.

“Hey, ma,” he says, stuffing his gloves into the pocket of his coat, then tossing it onto the half-wall before flopping down beside her. 

“Hey yourself, muppet.” She presses mute and reaches over to tousle his already-mussed hair. “You smell like a bar.” 

“Thanks.” Glancing at the television, he spies a waxy-faced man, gone apoplectic with the love of God. “How’s Jesus today?” 

“Sending you straight to hell,” she replies, giving his cheek a pinch as he rolls his eyes and swats her hand away. Sarah, whom he loves dearly, has some weird hobbies. Like watching televangelists for hours on end just so she can yell at the television about how much they suck. 

Also, macrame. Reeeeeally into macrame. 

“Save me a spot by the fire,” he teases. “You should be in bed.” 

“Eh, soon enough.” She waves a dismissive hand. “How’s Lorraine?”

Steve shrugs, pulling a pillow into his lap so he can pick at a loose thread. “Never said I was with Lo.” 

Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up. Steve can’t quite meet her gaze. Because while he’s been out since he was fourteen, and she’s always been supportive, she has no idea of the breadth and depth of his sexual history. When he's active, he's careful—picking nights when she works, home by the time she gets back, or (conversely) kicking people out early—so admitting he spent the night with someone is gonna get questions.

“And?” she prompts.

“It’s uh. I met someone.” 

“Uh-huh. And what’s his name?”

“Bucky.”

“What the hell kinda name is Bucky?” she hoots. 

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. It’s…whatever. It’s his name. I didn’t ask. Anyway, we went out last night and I uh…stayed over. I guess.” His cheeks are flaming hot, but he has a policy of not lying to his mother. Because when you’ve mostly only had each other for twenty-some-odd years, you tend not to fuck with the sanctity of the relationship. 

“Ah.” 

“We didn’t! We just. It was late. And we fell asleep. It’s not…” he blows out a breath. “He’s actually kind of old-fashioned?”

“Old-fashioned, huh?”

“Yeah. Like a throwback. Real romantic.”

“I don’t hate that. How’d you meet?”

“At work,” he says, because it’s true, even if the side street brawl played a _small_ part in their getting together. 

“He works with you?” 

“Nah. He’s a customer.” 

“Ah.” A frown, and Steve can see the gears turning—God knows she’s been asked out by patients before. And doctors. And administrators. Hell, even random pharmacy techs. The implied pressure of the ask has always pissed her off, though she has no trouble turning people down.

“I asked him,” he reassures her. “I promise. And he’s uh. He’s great. We’re going out again next weekend.” 

Sarah’s face relaxes into a smile. “Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

“Um. He’s smart. Kind of quiet. Good looking.” 

“Looks-schmooks. Go back to the smart. What does he do?” 

“Such a _mom_ ,” he smirks. “He’s a contractor. Travels a lot.” 

“Contractor for what?” 

Steve frowns. "Uh. The government?" Bucky's never explicitly stated that, of course, but it's his best guess. Plus, it sounds better than mafia-drug-smuggling-sex-worker.

“You don’t sound real sure.” 

“Well, we didn’t spend the date talking about boring work stuff! I’m not waxing rhapsodic about the thrill of counting quarters.”

“Alright, but—” 

"He knits!" It comes out quickly because he doesn't want Sarah thinking that Bucky's sketchy.

“What?” 

"He knits. And my hands were cold, so he gave me a pair of gloves."

“The fuck were you doing outside without gloves?” 

“That’s not the _point_ , ma!” 

"It's a little bit the point, muppet," she says, pulling his hands close to her mouth and blowing on them as if that will help at this late stage. "You wanna catch your death?"

“The _point_ is…” he counters, pulling his hands back. “He gave me gloves. That he knitted. And I like him a lot. So I just wanted you to know that I met someone.” 

“Let’s see them, then.” 

“See what?” 

“The _gloves_.” 

"Oh!" Steve stretches over, closing his fingers around the hem of his coat and tugging it off the pass-through. It's a reach, but it's better than having to stand up and make an effort. Pulling out the gloves, he passes them to Sarah, who scrutinizes them.

“Pretty good. Thumbs are a little off.” 

“Ma…” 

“I’m happy you’re happy,” she teases. “Honest.” 

“I’d be happier if you’d go to bed.” 

“Who’s the parent around here?” 

“Please? I bought doughnuts. You can have one before your shift if you knock off right now.” 

“Or I could have one anyway…” 

“Please?” he repeats with an added frown for emphasis.

“You know I won’t be able to sleep.”

“You can try. Rest, at least?” 

“Christ,” she mutters. “Who raised this stubborn sonofabitch?” 

“Musta learned it from a goat,” he replies, their Vaudevillian routine familiar as she rises, knees popping in protest.

“Yeah, yeah. Watch your head for horns, kid.” Pressing a kiss to his rumpled hair, she shuffles into her room, shutting the door. 

Steve waits until he hears the telltale sound of her bedsprings squeaking before he starts an episode of _The Office_ —his preferred soporific—and curls up on his side beneath a blanket, quickly falling into uninterrupted sleep.

By the time he wakes for good, it's nearly ten, and he feels like a person again. Funny what continuous rest can do. Humming, he heads to the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee. While it brews, he checks his phone and finds two messages, one from Lorraine, and one from Bucky.

Lorraine’s is typically restrained: _how did it go did you get laid you beast???_

Bucky’s, however, makes him smile in its simplicity: _hope your hands stayed warm._

His response to Lorraine is easy—an X and a sad face—but he thinks harder about what he wants to say to Bucky, putting it off as he pours his coffee and starts on a doughnut. Finally, he responds with a picture of one gloved hand holding his mug and the utterly dopey message of _looking forward to Sunday_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: a Bucky interlude. Thank you to everyone for reading, and I hope you're all staying safe and healthy. I know AO3 was having some email troubles, but they appear to be resolved, so with any luck you got the email in a timely fashion telling you this chapter was up, if you're subscribed.


	6. Rooftop Interlude Number One

Three days after his date with Steve, Bucky is on a rooftop in Belarus.

No. Not quite right.

Bucky is _distracted_ on a rooftop in Belarus. A luxury not often afforded to men in his position. But the job he’s been hired for is done, and now there is nothing left to do but wait for the cover of night, then slip through the tightening noose like the ghost story of his noted reputation.

This hit wasn’t a strike against HYDRA. Those jobs come fewer and further between these days. He doesn’t miss them. They felt too personal. Feel too personal. He does them cheap when they come, not because he takes pride in the killing, but because it feels good to mete out justice. As if a clean kill might mitigate his missing memories. 

The other hits? They’re just business. A means to an end. This is the only thing he’s ever been good at—a brute force, put to use. A soldier and a killer from the first day he picked up a gun, in service to one country, then another. An endless line of death and indignity.

At least these days, he’s on the side of the angels.

Or so he tells himself. Killing is a grey area, in his experience—hard to separate the merely corrupt from the morally bankrupt. 

But he’s made his choices.

Strange thing, having choices. 

There’s no changing the past. No silencing the recollections that rush over him unbidden—blood-spattered windshields and whispered pleas dropped from dying lips that mingle with snippets of the lullabies his mother would sing to him before he was a killer.

Sometimes, when he dreams, his ma has blood in her mouth. She parts her lips in a silent scream, and the rush of red pours out. Covers him until he drops to his knees and is faced with the sight of the knife in her gut—the one he put there.

When he wakes from these dreams, he is paralyzed. Limbs locked rigid. Forced to endure the penance of his rictus against whatever floor on which he's made his bed.

He doesn’t sleep often. 

The night Steve spent with him, he lay awake with his eyes closed. Watching. Waiting. Worrying that he would lapse into slumber and subject Steve to the horror that lives within, threatening to crawl its way out to paint a black mask across his screaming mouth. He remembers the rattle of Steve's breath, the hum of his exhalations. Signs of life, because Steve is _alive_. He might be the most alive person Bucky's ever met, every inch of him entirely himself. A half-drunk glass of whiskey, dark notes and bright; a contradiction of tempers, mercurial in a way Bucky can't shake.

Doesn’t want to shake. Not when Steve’s very presence brings recollections to his mind with startling regularity, waking something within him that he can’t yet name. Steve is the silhouette outlined against the light streaming through the only open passage amongst the closed, weatherbeaten doors of his mind. Holding out an outstretched hand that might guide Bucky toward a future that has thus far been out of reach. 

_That’s a lot to put on a fella after a first date_ , says the voice of his forgotten youth. The voice of baseball games and summers spent swinging sticks. The voice that fights to reassert itself around Steve, because it’s Steve’s voice, too. A common language separated by a century.

Bucky nearly misses her arrival, so caught up is he in thoughts of blonde hair and blue eyes and Brooklyn. But then: a whisper of wind; the slightest shifting of shadows. She has always excelled at stealth, so if he hears her at all, it’s because she wants him to know she’s coming.

“Natasha,” he says. Waits. Watches while she slips from the darkness, dressed in a black evening gown with a dark blonde wig covering her curls. She’d been attending the soiree, then. A shame Bucky murdered the guest of honor before the festivities could begin. He is clean, and he is efficient. Who needs a spy when one has a sniper? 

“You’re making a habit of this,” she says, voice betraying nothing, which undoubtedly means she’s irritated. 

“They gave me a name. I did my job.”

“Who gave you a name?”

He says nothing.

A sigh, her shoulders lowering a fraction. “I was hoping to speak to the ambassador.”

“Guess I saved you from a boring conversation.”

“Amongst other things.” 

Indeed—hair, hips, heels. Honeypot. “SHIELD is wasting your talents.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Who hired you? CIA?”

“I’m not going to answer, and you know that.” 

“I have to ask,” she replies. “But James…” 

The use of his first-given name flips a switch. It’s wrong. He’s not James. Not Jacob. Not the American. Not the Soldier. He’s _Bucky_. Steve calls him Bucky, and though it’s been a long time since anyone else did, he believes Bucky to be his best name. His true name. 

He doesn't want anyone but Steve to use it because to use it is to own it. Own him.

“James?” she repeats. 

God, he’s drifting. Happens too often these days. A vulnerability he can’t check.

“It’s done,” he says, tamping down the twisting in his gut. “Next time, work faster. I’m not here to do you favors.” 

“If you’d just _talk_ to Coulson about the job—” 

“No,” he says, their song-and-dance routine familiar and stale. “I’m strictly freelance, dolly-bird.” 

The untruth of the endearment makes her smile, and a smile—a genuine smile—from the Widow is something special. But he's been making her smile for years, he thinks, although his brain had been set and reset so often by the time he knew her that the memories are mere wisps. Vague visions of a spider in the form of a girl. Blood soaked ballet shoes.

He knew many Widows, but Natasha was his favorite. _Is_ his favorite. Because she freed herself, just like him. His little sister.

If asked, she would blame her defection on Barton, but Bucky knows as well as she does that nobody leaves by chance. It takes a choice, and having a choice is what they try hardest to take from you.

“So you’ve said,” she counters. “And sure, the pay’s a pittance, but you can’t beat the benefits. Plus, you ought to see the arsenal—” 

“Bullet’s a bullet, doesn’t matter about the gun.” 

She speaks over him. “It’s not so bad, going straight. The coffee in the break room’s nothing to write home about, but—” 

“No.” 

“I’ll keep asking.” 

“I know.” 

“If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.” 

Bucky gives her a mock salute. “Tell Agent Coulson I said hello.” 

That earns him another eye-roll as she melts into the shadows. 

Half an hour later, Bucky quits the rooftop for a crowd. Blends in and makes his way to the small, private room he’s taken in the filthiest hostel Minsk has to offer (because nobody looks for the assassin in the filthiest hostel).

The thought of home with its bright eyes and crooked smile is a balm as he undresses and lays between the scratchy sheets. Tomorrow, he’ll be back in Brooklyn. 

It’s a comfort to focus on something so simple as a second date.

That night, he sleeps without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Bucky's head. Next week is back to Steve, plus a few more dates.


	7. Chapter 7

The window of the bus is dust-spattered and grimy, making fine details difficult. Even through the dirt, Bucky’s easy to spot, standing there on the plaza, tucked against a lamppost, a scarf wrapped high on his neck and a slight frown marring his features. If he held a cigarette between his pouting lips, he’d be a latter-day James Dean.

The bus rolls to a stop, and despite Steve's haste to reach Bucky, he doesn't hesitate to help a young mother with a stroller navigate the step to the curb. Altruistic, yes, but also: the faster she's out, the faster he can follow. The woman thanks him, and he flashes her a smile before traversing the small crowd of Saturday museum-goers. Bucky sees him and stands a little straighter, frown disappearing. Steve doesn't know what to do with the warmth _that_ evokes inside, so he tamps it down as he walks up to Bucky and goes for the gold. (Said gold being a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, which he has to lean on his toes to accomplish.)

"Hi," he says, missing neither the widening of Bucky's eyes or the faded bruise on his cheekbone. Yellowing now, but unmistakable.

“Hey, Steve,” he says with an easy smile, which fades when Steve lifts a hand as if to touch the bruise. Bucky flinches like he’s about to get hit. Hurt. Which is a ludicrous notion—even if Steve punched him with every ounce of strength he possesses, it’d be about as impactful as a fruit fly landing on a rotten apple. 

“Sorry.” He lowers his hand. “Just…that’s a nasty bump. You okay?”

“It’s fine.” 

The response offers neither excuse nor explanation, but Steve knows better than to dig. Bucky isn’t his boyfriend, after all. Instead, he nods, pushing a hand through his hair before gesturing to the entrance. “Shall we?” 

As they walk, Bucky’s hand falls to the small of Steve’s back. It’s an intimate gesture—one that doesn’t usually happen on a second date. And maybe Steve ought to be freaked out, but he can’t find it in himself to overthink. Bucky’s sweet, and as far as he can tell, well-intentioned. 

Once they’re inside, Steve is reminded that tickets don’t come cheap. Granted, it’s not the Met, but it’s not nothing, and yes, sure, he could pay a nickel for each of them (being as it’s merely a _suggested_ donation), but he'd feel like a heel. It's one thing to cheap out as a student, but he's an adult with a job now, and he ought to pay his way. He might not be much of an artist these days, but he wants to at least be a patron of the goddamn arts.

Bucky tries to beat him to the counter, and a minor kerfuffle ensues, ending when Steve elbows in front of him to pull out his wallet. 

“Steve—” he protests.

“You got the first date,” he replies, hating how petulant and defensive he sounds. 

Bucky, sensing tension, backs down. Steve buys two tickets for the regular exhibits, skipping the special add-ons. They can send his regards to Frida Kahlo. 

Taking a map apiece, they enter the museum, where Steve is hit with a wave of anxiety and nostalgia. The latter for all the days he spent here as a kid, and the former for…also all the days he spent here as a kid. Because he has a history of being weird in museums, stemming from his very particular wants and needs when it comes to appreciating art. Namely: he likes to stand, stare, and absorb for as long as it takes to feel as if he's gotten what he needs to from a piece. Sometimes it's only a couple seconds, but other times it can be five, ten, fifteen minutes. Lengths that, to people who prefer to glance and go, can feel interminable. For example, his mother gave up accompanying him when he was twelve, entrusting him with a bus schedule and her good sense. Even in college—for art!—his friends would wind up spending an hour in the gift shop or cafe, waiting for him to finish. He never felt particularly bad about making them wait, but eventually, they stopped asking him to join the expeditions.

Meaning that this is the first time he’s visited a museum with another person since freshman year. 

To his surprise, however, Bucky brokers no complaints as they make their way through the ground floor galleries, Steve in the lead. He sticks close, stays quiet, and shuffles behind like a shadow with nary a sigh or sniff of impatience. It’s hard to tell whether or not he’s enjoying the experience, but he’s not complaining, which sets Steve’s mind at ease. To the point where he’s able to enter that silent, meditative state museums evoke in him, taking his time and breathing it in.

It takes them the better part of ninety minutes to poke into every nook and cranny of the first floor. Steve, who swears he's not a sadist, glances at Bucky once they're through, checking for signs of exhaustion. Bucky just smiles, both hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. "Alright?"

“Fine,” Steve says.

“Where to next?”

The question is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. “Ah…well, I know we’ve been here a while already, but…Lo really wants me to see the exhibits in the Sackler Center. One of her professors has a piece there. Do you mind?” 

“No,” he says, a half-smile on his face. “I don’t mind at all.”

The Sackler Center is on the fourth floor, but Steve refuses to take the elevator, lest he steal a spot from someone who truly needs it. He’s twenty-three and healthy. So what if he’s sporting a slight wheeze by the time they reach the top? He doesn’t need his inhaler. Bucky stops at the apex, though, pretending to be interested in a plaque commemorating a donor. A bullshit ruse if Steve ever saw one, but he’s grateful for the chance to fill his lungs.

“That was a really interesting sign,” Bucky says politely as they step out of the stairwell.

“Uh-huh,” Steve agrees. “Sorry—”

“No, really,” he continues. “The Astors. They’re…they’ve always been generous.” 

If Steve had a nickel for every Astor plaque he’s seen in his life, he’d have at least enough for a fancy coffee, and he nods absently as they round the corner. “Sure. Oh, hey, there it is.” _‘It’_ being the Sackler Center in all its empowering glory.

The touring exhibit (included with the price of admission, thank you very much) is about women who changed modern history, with pieces examining those in power, and what having that power meant for their lives and the world. Bucky perks up when they enter the hall, more focused and deliberate than in the lower galleries. Almost as if he's spotted something—a theory borne out as he beelines across the room to a small, unassuming portrait on the far wall.

Steve follows, stopping at Bucky’s side to survey the piece. Oil on canvas, the style reminding him of Zhilinsky, only a knock-off with none of the nuance. The subject is wearing an olive-green military uniform, hair set in an old-fashioned style that he guesses is probably from the forties, based on his vague notions of the era. She’s good-looking, with a flinty, self-assured expression on her unsmiling face. 

The sign beside the portrait identifies the piece as being called _Undercover_ , while the woman herself is Margaret Carter. A spy and a covert operative during World War II, she became the founding director of SHIELD, an organization that Steve recognizes as akin to the FBI or CIA, though more nebulous by reputation. If memory serves, they were involved in a scandal a couple of years back—corruption in the ranks—something he might have paid more attention to, had he not been in school. It seemed like a bunch of Washington bullshit, honestly. Still, whatever SHIELD is doing now, it's refreshing to see that its founding was under a woman's leadership, rather than some shadowy J. Edgar Hoover shenanigans.

Granted, Margaret Carter probably got up to some shady shit, too, but her face looks like an ethical face. Or as ethical as the mediocre portrait can convey. It's decent, but nothing earth-shattering. Bucky, however, is _fascinated_ , eyes roving across every inch of canvas. Up and down. Back and forth. For a moment, Steve worries he might reach out and touch it.

“You like her?” he asks, hoping to break the spell. 

“She died,” Bucky says, voice hitching.

“Oh. Yeah.” There’s a small secondary sign amended to the original, indicating that Margaret had passed only six months ago. Sad, but not unexpected, considering the lady was in her nineties.

“I was gonna—” Bucky shakes his head, then blinks. “Shit.” 

Steve frowns, touching his arm. “What?” 

“I…knew her,” he offers. 

“Were you related?” Which is not an appropriate response, but it’s what comes out. Because he can’t grok how they would have known one another otherwise—even if this lady was career military (which she wasn’t), she would have been well past her prime by the time Bucky was serving. 

"No—" He lifts his gloved hand, and once again, Steve worries he's about to touch her. He doesn't, though. Just holds his fingers close before letting out this massive, shuddering breath and stepping back. "What ah, where's the piece Lorraine wanted you to see?"

“We don’t have to…” he says, the offer dying on his lips when he sees the look in Bucky’s eyes. The desperate, needy look that says _I need to move on_. 

Whoever this woman was to Bucky, Steve can respect his grief. Knows better than to press at a wound that's still healing. Sparing one final glance for Margaret, he tosses his head in the direction of the nearest archway. It doesn't take them long to find the professor's piece, after which they make their way around a few more of the exhibits, including The Dinner Party, which Steve would normally wax rhapsodic about, but doesn't. Because things feel off. They've felt off since they left that unassuming portrait in the first room, so when they reach the end of the gallery, he looks up at Bucky with a shrug.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure.”

Steve nods, and soon enough, they're back on the plaza, waiting for Steve's bus. When it arrives, he hesitates, wondering if he should go in for a kiss. In the end, he doesn't, but as the doors open and he steps forward, Bucky speaks up.

“Let’s go out again,” he says, so quietly Steve nearly misses it over the sound of the engine.

“I…yeah,” he agrees, glancing back. “Sure.”

“I gotta make a deposit on Tuesday. We can figure it out then.” 

Another nod, and then Steve thinks _fuck it_ and kisses him anyway. Life’s too short.

* * *

On Tuesday, Steve offers a trip to Staten Island for their third date. Or, rather, he offers a trip on the Staten Island Ferry. Which is cheap of him, sure, but who’s going to complain about seeing Lady Liberty for practically nothing? At any rate, Bucky accepts and meets him at the Manhattan terminal on Sunday morning, where they board the boat together, standing on the deck rather than taking refuge inside. It’s cold, sure, but Steve has his gloves, and Bucky provides a fair bit of warmth, pressed up behind him, pinning him loosely against the rail. The proximity is more than enough reason to be glad they came, and Steve can’t keep the smile off his face as they watch the statue slip by on their way to the borough that, in his opinion, is only worth visiting for the return trip. (Brooklyn snobbery, naturally, but also Staten Island is second only to New Jersey on his list of Places He’d Rather Die Than End Up.) 

“My great-grandmother came through Ellis Island,” he says, nodding at the building visible in the distance, stark against the grey winter sky. 

Bucky takes a step nearer, crowding him that much more, a balm against the wind cutting across the water. “So did my ma,” he says, which is such a strange thing that Steve twists his head around, confused. He’s not totally sure on the dates, but he knows Ellis Island hasn’t been open for arrivals in years. 

“Really?”

Bucky hesitates, then shrugs, shifting his eyes to the horizon. “I meant my grandmother. As a baby.” His thumb moves to stroke Steve’s spine in a manner he can feel all the way through his coat and sweater. “When did yours come over?” 

"Great-grandmother," he corrects. "And I'm not sure. Early in the century, I guess? My ma does all that genealogy stuff." Sarah had become an obsessive since the death of her mother, spending hours sleuthing through old records online.

“Ah,” Bucky says, then not-so-smoothly shifts the topic. “You want a coffee?” 

Steve does, so Bucky treats him to a cup of boat sludge. They finish their drinks inside, just to warm up, and by the time they’re through, they’ve docked on the Staten Island side. 

They disembark hand-in-hand, with Steve intending to walk them off this boat, then through the turnstiles and onto another heading home. 

Bucky, however, looks at him like he’s grown a second set of ears when he hears that plan. “Why’re we gonna do that?”

"Because they make everyone get off the boat, but if we hurry, we can get back in and catch the next one before it goes. Get some lunch near Wall Street, or—"

“Why in the hell’d we come to Staten Island, then?” he asks, incredulous. 

“To ride the ferry,” he says, because he’s been operating under the assumption that Bucky understands the point of their expedition. “See the Statue for free?” 

Bucky scrunches up his face. “We gonna ride the subway around for a while, too, just to see the rats?” 

Steve has no answer, though he opens up his mouth in half-formed protest all the same. “I—” 

"Whadda-I-needa see the statue for?" He shrugs, Brooklyn patois pronounced and pointed. "I can walk down to the waterfront any goddamn day!"

Steve scowls and Brooklyns right back. “You think I’m gonna take a _date_ to Staten Island? The fuck is wrong with _you_? We’re gettin’ on the goddamn boat.” 

“Pfft.” Bucky waves a hand. “You said you’d pick the date—you picked Staten Island!”

“I picked the _ferry_.” 

“You’re tellin’ me you got nothin’ better to do than ride a boat?” 

“A lot of people do it!”

“Lotta people,” he scoffs, grabbing Steve by the hand once more and tugging him toward the exit. “Lotta people, my chapped ass. C’mon, I’m starving.” 

“Bucky,” he protests, though he lets himself be led. “There’s nothing around here!”

“The fuck there’s not. People on Staten Island gotta eat.”

“I’m serious—” 

“Takin’ a boat just to take another boat,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re nuts.” 

“I’m _not_ ,” he says, but he’s laughing, because Bucky’s so _offended_ , which is far more charming than it has any right to be. 

Hand-in-hand, they leave the terminal, and Bucky (who seems to have a homing instinct for food) marches determinedly to the main road. It takes a bit of walking, but they end up finding a corner that boasts both the world's classiest ninety-nine cent store and a deli that looks as if it hasn't seen a customer since the early eighties.

“We’re eating here,” Bucky declares. 

“No way.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m not getting poisoned by landfill lunch meat.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, though Steve catches a hint of a smile. “You’re a real punk, you know that?” 

As insults go, he likes it in the same way he likes Bucky: in spite of its strangeness, or maybe because of it. “Whatever. You’re the one with a hard-on for Staten Island.” 

“Smartass. Maybe I don’t see the point of takin’ a huge trip without a goddamn destination.” 

“It wasn’t a huge trip!” he protests as Bucky pushes open the door, the bell above chiming their arrival. “It’s half an hour. At _most_.” 

“Just order a damn sandwich.” 

Steve gets a burger (well done—he's not taking any chances) and a side of fries. Bucky orders a pastrami on rye and devours it with gusto. They spend the meal taking potshots and teasing one another, which is comfortable with Bucky, the banter and camaraderie unforced. Steve actually _likes_ him beyond the liking of him—as if they could be friends in addition to whatever burgeoning romance might blossom.

Later, back on the ferry, Bucky leans down and kisses him out of nowhere. Just like that—like it’s a thing he has to do. Steve melts into the kiss and decides that maybe Staten Island’s not so bad after all.

* * *

Over the next four weeks, they go on five more dates. Then, suddenly, because Bucky’s a drug-dealing mafia kingpin, he’s out of town for two and a half weeks. 

Steve doesn’t expect the absence to hit him as hard as it does, but he finds himself restless and aimless, all the same. Annoying his mother when she’s home, Lorraine when she’s not, and fretting about not-his-boyfriend Bucky in between. 

A week and a half into their separation, Steve opens Grindr. Because he’s _not_ going to become some cliche, mooning over a guy he’s not even exclusive with. As if he doesn’t have anything better to do. So he scrolls, flirts, taps, and chats until he’s rewarded with a half-decent dick pic and agrees to meet the guy at a dive bar in an hour. 

Upon arrival, Steve has every intention of sucking the dude off in the bathroom, but then he realizes that he doesn’t actually want to do that. At all. Unfortunately, that realization doesn’t come until he’s already in the stall, with the dude holding his semi-erect cock in his hands, waiting for Steve to get down there and take care of the problem. Not the _best_ timing, Steve will grant him that, but also: consent can be revoked at any time, motherfucker. 

The guy proves to be an asshole about it, though, and even tries to push Steve’s head down. Rank bullshit, is what that is, and Steve’s response is to elbow him in the gut. Asshole retaliates by shoving Steve into the wall. 

Things escalate. 

Ergo, Steve is sporting the remnants of a split lip the next time he sees Bucky. 

“What happened to you?” Bucky asks when Steve walks up to the agreed-upon restaurant. 

“Got in a fight,” he mutters, twisting away when Bucky reaches out to touch his chin. 

“You get in a lot of fights.” It’s not an accusation, merely an observation.

“Not _that_ many.”

“You lose a lot of fights.” 

“Hey, fuck you,” he laughs without malice. “I lose _all_ of them.” 

Bucky grins, then throws an arm over his shoulders. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to win?” 

“Yeah—get built like a fucking building,” he says as they head inside. “That’d be a start.” 

“Size ain’t got shit to do with winning fights,” Bucky replies, sounding so much like a movie gangster that it makes Steve laugh. 

The subject is dropped when the menus arrive, and they spend dinner discussing what Steve’s been up to in Bucky’s absence. Where Bucky was or what he was doing during that absence, however, never really comes up. Which is a pattern he is happy to keep ignoring. For now. 

Once dinner is over, Steve is struck with horny inspiration, tugging Bucky around the corner and into the first doorway he can find where the streetlights don’t reach. A pocket of privacy—just enough for what he has in mind.

Bucky lets Steve push him against the metal door. Lets Steve kiss him the way he’s wanted to all night. He kisses back, too, strong arms settling around Steve’s waist, pulling their bodies flush. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” Steve mumbles, the sentiment cloying on his tongue. 

Bucky laughs, low and pleased, one hand moving to the nape of Steve’s neck, thumb rubbing the muscle there, making him want to arch up like a cat. Rub himself around Bucky’s legs while begging for attention. He settles for the next best thing. It’ll be murder on his knees, but he doesn’t care so much about that. He wants to make Bucky feel good, is all. To show him how much he missed him and seal the deal, so to speak.

Bucky never lets him get that far—sees what’s coming and stops him before he can drop to his knees, prosthetic tightening around his torso. 

“It’s alright,” Steve says, fighting the hold. “I want to.” 

“Mmm,” he shrugs, making a strange noise low in his throat. “Not here. Not like this.” 

The sting of rejection is impossible to hide behind a pithy hand wave, and Steve frowns. Hunches his shoulders and pulls out of Bucky’s embrace with a muttered, “whatever.” 

“Steve…”

Not wanting to hear what’s coming next, Steve starts to walk away.

It takes Bucky all of two seconds to catch him. Nudge his shoulder. Match him stride for stride as they walk down the dimly-lit street, together and apart.

“You’re pissed,” Bucky offers as a statement of fact.

“Yup.” 

“I don’t understand why.” 

“Why do you think?” he snaps.

“It’s not…” He blows out a breath. “It didn’t feel right to do that there.” 

Steve scoffs. “I never knew someone so precious about a blow job.” 

“That’s not—” Which is when Bucky reaches out. Stops him, then tries to turn him around. The manipulation does nothing to soothe Steve’s temper, and he jerks back from the hold, instinctively raising his hand to smack Bucky’s arm away.

Only it’s the wrong arm. The metal is unyielding, his palm lighting up with a million painful warnings as he lets out a gasp of pain and surprise, cradling his hand to his chest. “Mother _fucker_.” 

Bucky’s on him in a second, only _on_ him isn’t right, because that implies hitting back. Instead, Bucky’s intent is solicitous, pulling Steve’s sore hand away from his chest, examining it, even as Steve tries to twist away. 

“Leave me alone,” he mutters without much conviction.

“Lemme see your hand, you horse’s ass,” Bucky replies, the gentleness in his tone making Steve’s fingers reflexively flex as he relents. Bucky lifts his palm to his chapped lips, pressing a kiss to the center. “Pal.” His breath is warm against Steve’s still-throbbing skin. “I missed you, too.” 

Steve can’t quite remember why he got so mad. “Sorry. I just, I thought—”

“I get it,” Bucky replies, dropping his hand. “For the record, it ain’t that I’m opposed to the notion.”

“Just the location.”

“Somethin’ like that. C’mon, let’s get you home.” 

An unspoken agreement passes between them, and they walk the rest of the way to Steve's front stoop in silence. Once there, Bucky kisses him twice, then pulls back with a smile.

“Next date’s on me,” he says. “Don’t dress too nice.” 

“What’s too nice?”

“Wear shit you can sweat in.”

Suspicions roused, Steve agrees to the outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this every time, but I mean it every time: thank you to everyone who is reading and cheering this story along! It's making this shitkicker of a year a little bit brighter.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky texts Steve an address two days before their next date. It turns out to be a redbrick warehouse located in the bowels of Gowanus. When Steve arrives, Bucky's standing outside the building, duffel bag in hand, relaxing against the wall with one foot up. The picture of ease. Conversely, Steve feels entirely out of place in holey sweatpants and a t-shirt he won at drag bingo.

"Hi," he greets, hoping Bucky won't notice how his toes are poking through the holes in the tops of his sneakers. He hadn't remembered the holes were there until getting dressed, berating himself for forgetting—he's had the same sneakers since college, and they've been shot to shit since sophomore year. But because he's not super active (he has been known to hop on an elliptical next to Lorraine, very occasionally, and he likes taking walks), the shoes weren't a pressing concern. Until they were.

“Hey,” Bucky says, leaning down for a kiss like it’s something he does now. Something normal. 

"What, uh…" Steve pulls back and gestures to the building. "What is this?"

“Way I see it,” Bucky says instead of answering, pulling open the tinted glass door. “You wanna throw punches every time you feel put-upon, you might as well learn how to do it right.” 

It’s a fucking gym. Of _course_ it’s a fucking gym. Steve shudders reflexively while visions of sweat glistening on the skin of attractive people on shiny new equipment dance in his head. He follows Bucky in anyway, and is immediately proven wrong: rather than Equinox in Brooklyn, he finds himself in a small, grey box of a lobby containing a battered metal desk. A guy who looks straight out of central casting sits behind it, half a cigar champed between his teeth. 

The guy gives Bucky the sort of nod that indicates they know one another as Bucky approaches. “Got a guest, Hank.”

“That’s five,” says Hank, who doesn’t look like a Hank. He should be a Joey. A Frankie. An ironically named Lil’ Anthony. 

Bucky hands over the cash. Hank sticks it in a drawer then presses something beneath his desk. A buzzer buzzes, and the door opposite them clicks open. Steve, who has lost his voice, follows Bucky meekly down a small hallway and into an open space that smells like a grunt—sweat, blood, and testosterone mingling with the grit of the canal. The room is hazy, with dim fluorescents flickering overhead, illuminating two boxing rings, and an array of other equipment, most of it foreign to him. Punching bags, sure, he knows them. Weight benches, yup. Dumbbell racks? Maybe. Plus, a row of battered metal shelves holding other _things_ —bands and bars and towels and torture devices. Still, the gym has a worn-in but well-maintained vibe, as if the patrons give a shit.

As for those shit-giving patrons? There are fewer than a dozen currently spread out across the room. One of the boxing rings is occupied by two big guys circling one another, occasionally trading blows but mostly engaging in a bob-and-weave competition. A blonde woman with biceps bigger than Steve's thigh is using a weight bench, with another just-as-buff lady behind her. Spotting her, he thinks is the term. That's a thing, right? Across from the women is a behemoth of a man with muscles growing muscles, jumping rope with the grace of a second-grader. To his left is one of the most attractive men Steve's ever seen (which is saying something, considering his companion), all lean muscle and sharp lines, pouring his rage into the punching bag, sweat pouring down his dark skin.

They are all fit. Honed. Perfect in the way Bucky is perfect—efficient and beautiful and oh-so-strong.

Steve is way the fuck out of his element. 

Bucky keeps walking, forcing Steve from his observations as he jogs to catch up. Two wooden doors are tucked into the far corner, dingy olive paint staining their surfaces. Peeling in places, but sturdy as Bucky swings the leftmost one open.

Steve nearly gags at the smell. Ammonia, humanity, and industrial-strength bleach emanate from the small locker room in a wave that makes him think he might not be able to handle going inside. 

“C’mon,” Bucky says. “I gotta dress out.” 

“I can wait—” he starts, only to catch sight of a guy twice Bucky’s size, wrapped in a white towel that barely covers his thighs. “Yeah, okay. Cool.” Whatever. He can hold his breath.

Bucky nudges his shoulder as they head inside and pass the guy, a smirk on his face. “Eyes on your own paper, Rogers,” he teases, and while Steve knows it’s a joke, he also wonders if it’s advice. Like a boxing gym on the banks of the Gowanus is not the place one goes to ogle other men. 

Christ, he hates navigating straight spaces. 

“You said comfortable clothes,” he mutters, rather than responding to Bucky’s jibe. “I look like an idiot.” 

“You look fine,” he replies, setting his bag down. Steve sits opposite, not sure where to look as Bucky starts stripping down—trades his jeans for shorts that hit just above his knees, then pulls off his sweater to reveal a long-sleeved undershirt that keeps his arm hidden. Steve is human, so he sneaks a peek at Bucky’s well-muscled thighs when he bends over to stuff his jeans in his bag. Thinks a little about how he wishes Bucky’s shorts were tighter when he sits down and trades his boots for a pair of sneakers. 

“I don’t have boxing gloves,” Steve says stupidly, as if that might put a stop to this whole humiliating endeavor. 

“I know,” Bucky says, reaching for his bag. “I got you some.” 

Shit. Again with this guy and the gifted gloves. “I’ll pay you back—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, tossing the gloves to Steve, who just about catches them. “They’re gonna be stiff, but they should fit. Try ‘em on.” 

Steve does and finds that Bucky's correct. Cocooning his fists, he instinctively taps the pads together. Bucky laughs at the gesture, though it's not cruelty that drives it. Amusement, maybe? Steve doesn't feel the urge to yell, at any rate.

“Take ‘em off,” Bucky says after a minute. When Steve does, he tosses him a roll of what looks like medical-grade tape. “Tape up.” 

"Uh. How?"

Bucky smiles, shrugs, and shows him. After which, he goes back to his bag and pulls out his own gloves, which are fancier than Steve's—laces instead of velcro—plus a strange, small, half-circle looking thing.

“What’s that?” Steve asks, pointing to it as they stand to leave the locker room. 

"Mouthguard," Bucky says. "Probably you oughta keep one on you all the time."

“Hey!” he protests, but it’s through laughter as he trails Bucky back out to the gym.

They set up near the punching bags, where Bucky drops his gloves and mouthguard on the floor, then gives one of the bags an experimental push, like maybe it’s gonna push back. Satisfied with whatever he finds, he nods, then glances at Steve, who has just finished putting his gloves back on.

“Hit it.” 

“Uh. Sure.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Steve hits the bag as hard as he can with what he thinks is a right cross. The bag responds by being an _asshole_ and not even moving one full inch, despite the impact of the punch radiating up his whole goddamn arm. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, stepping behind him to put his hand on his hips, in front of God and everyone else. So that’s a _lot_. How is Steve supposed to concentrate when Bucky's squaring him up against the bag and tugging him back? Jesus, it's enough to give a guy a semi, which he wouldn't be complaining about under normal circumstances, but there's a lot to contend with right now. "You right-handed or left?"

“Uh.” Basic comprehension deserting him, Steve has to think about it. “Right.” 

Bucky nods. “Jab with your left, then.” 

"Sure," he says because that makes total sense. Jab with his left. Definitely. "Uh, now?"

“No. Fix your stance. Left foot forward, right foot back. Angle it a little.” 

Steve shifts his body, which is when Bucky crouches down, putting himself eye-level with Steve’s ass as he adjusts his right ankle. Fucking _fuck_. 

“Jab with your left,” Bucky repeats, bouncing to his feet. “Keep your knees soft, keep your right hand up—that’s your defense.” 

“From what?” he mutters, lifting his glove to mimic Bucky. 

Bucky smacks his hand against the upheld glove. “From that. Show me a jab.” 

Steve tries again, feeling like the epitome of gracelessness, fist connecting with the bag at a different angle. It still sucks, but Bucky nods, which sends an odd frisson of pride through him. 

"Again," Bucky says. Steve obliges. Then obliges one more time. Those two hits are followed by a series of corrections: "tuck your elbows," and "good, keep your hands up," and "move your hips more—use your whole torso. Attaboy." Yeah, Steve _would_ use his hips if he weren't so self-conscious about the effect that all the casual touches and corrections have on him below-the-waist.

Still, by the time Bucky’s finished with the lesson, Steve feels solid. Better than solid—he’s Evander Holyfield, god damn it. 

But then Bucky adds in a second type of punch, turning the jab into a combination, and Steve is fucked once more.

Bucky demonstrates the new movement in slow motion. "Start with the jab, and you keep your opponent on his toes. Then you pull back, hit 'em with the right cross. One-two. You got me?"

Steve very much does not have him, but he tries all the same. The combo is harder—more choreography, less instinct. Countless repetitions under Bucky’s patient tutelage. Arm-comes-back, arm-goes-out, twist-your-hips-and-tuck-your-elbows-Rogers-c’maaaahn! 

“I _was_!” he protests in the face of Bucky’s umpteenth critique. 

“Chicken wings,” Bucky responds, grabbing him by his elbows and forcing them down. “Telegraphin’ the shit outta your punches. Other fella’s gonna read you like the Times, you mook.” He squeezes Steve’s arms, and Steve thinks briefly that Bucky sounds like his grandfather, but then Bucky’s kissing him on the top of the head and holy _shit_ , what the fuck? He glances around carefully, making sure none of the dead-lifting Schwarzeneggers are watching. 

Nobody’s looking. Steve shakes his head, smacking his gloves together, then throws another combo, this time keeping his elbows tucked.

Bucky gives a curt nod before taking him through a second series of endless one-twos. Steve feels like a robot by the end, whose only programming instruction is to hit the bag. It's kinda fun, though. Not the sort of fun he'd seek out on his own, but being there with Bucky? It's enough to make a guy wanna get better, is all.

Which is about when Bucky decides it's time for Steve to learn the left hook, turning a two-punch combo into three. Ergo: fucked for the third time. Because throwing three punches in quick succession is tantamount to being asked to perform the role of the sugarplum fairy with the New York City ballet after taking two remedial tap classes.

"One-two-three," Bucky says after Steve fucks it up for the fourth time in a row. "C'mon, Rogers, get it together."

“ _You_ do it, then, if it’s so fucking easy,” he snaps, patience worn thin as he swipes a glove across his sweat-soaked forehead. 

Bucky shrugs, then slips his gloves on, pulling the laces tight with practiced ease. Nudging Steve out of the way, he squares up to the bag and starts to move.

Well shit, if Steve’s dick wasn’t hard before… 

Bucky's the sugarplum fucking fairy. If that fairy had a kid with Gene Kelly, then sent it to a boxing gym. Which is a shitty analogy, but it's all he can muster in the face of perfection. Bucky is sheer grace and power, light on his feet despite his bulk, every punch landing precisely as he makes his way around the bag. He makes it look easy, though Steve knows it isn't. Watching Bucky, he finds himself wanting to be good. To be _better_. To love this as much as Bucky does, to find the joy that's so evident on his face. Smoothing out the lines in his forehead and lightening the load he carries.

“See?” Bucky teases, eventually stepping away from the bag with a shit-eating grin on his face. “So fucking easy.” 

"Pffft," Steve shoots back because it's easier to piffle than say what's really on his mind. Namely: how much he wants to lick every drop of sweat from Bucky's skin after such an egregious display of virility. "It was _okay_.” 

“One-two-three, you punk. C’mon, let me see you break a sweat.” 

"Fuck off," he says. As if Bucky hasn't noticed the small lake forming around his feet. Gritting his teeth, he taps his gloves together and turns to the bag.

“Yeah, go on, Kid Berg,” Bucky says, knocking the side of his head with a gentle hit. “That tells ‘em you’re coming, too.” 

“What does?” 

“Tapping your gloves. Waves a red flag that says you’re gonna do somethin’ stupid.” 

“Oh.” 

“You get smacked in the head enough, you figure out how to pull a better poker face.” 

"Someone musta knocked you plenty," he mutters, and for a second he worries Bucky might take offense, but Bucky just laughs, imploring him again to get his ass to work.

Steve obliges, and while it takes him a disgusting, sweaty amount of time, he masters the jab-hook-cross combination. Probably that's not the technical name, but it's the name _he’s_ giving it. Because his arms hurt, and his legs hurt, and his lungs hurt, and he’s ready to douse himself in water and eat copious amounts of food and do any number of things that don’t involve being in this gym.

But then Bucky tosses his head at an empty ring and says, “let’s go a couple rounds.”

Suddenly Steve has a second wind. 

Going into the ring involves the mouthguard, a tool Steve has never used in his life, because he was very unpopular in high school. But everything old is new again, or whatever, and now he is a fucking athlete. So he sticks the squishy plastic thing between his teeth and works it into a position of relative comfort. Funny—for all that he’s got a big fucking mouth when it comes to talking shit, his _literal_ mouth is pretty small. (Which isn’t to say he can’t suck dick with the best of them.) Bucky, conversely, does not have a mouthguard. Because Bucky doesn’t anticipate getting hit. Steve ought to be insulted by that, but also…accurate. 

They get themselves situated, with Bucky giving him a hand up into the ring because it's been that sort of afternoon. Steve's not sure if Bucky's showing off or being naturally sexy when he starts punching the air, shaking his arms out to loosen up.

"Whashadoin?" he mush-mouths around the guard, imitating the movement.

"Shadowboxing," Bucky replies, naming something Steve legitimately believed was just a Fiona Apple song up to that point in his life. Idiot.

They keep shadowboxing for a minute, and where Bucky is graceful, Steve is more like a headless giraffe—all legs, and a lot of panicked flailing. Finally, Bucky takes mercy on him and moves to the center of the ring, ready for a fight. 

“Hands up,” he says when Steve joins him. “Elbows down.” 

“Sorry.” Bringing his hands up, he squares off. One foot forward, one foot back, because he’s learned something today, damn it. “How come your hands aren’t up that high?”

Bucky, whose hands are nearer his chest than his cheeks, shrugs. "You do this long enough, you see the punches coming. Find other ways of dodging 'em."

“Ah,” he nods, then decides to test that theory by throwing a jab out of nowhere.

The hit doesn’t even come close to Bucky, who sidesteps it like it’s no more than a gentle breeze before coming back with a left hook that catches Steve on the temple because, like a dumbfuck, he’s dropped his hand. It’s a pulled punch, but the side of Steve’s head smarts all the same, and he’s sure he just lost a few brain cells, which is a shame, considering he has so few to spare (yuk yuk). 

“Hands _up_ , punk,” Bucky says, but no sooner has Steve lifted him than he lays a right cross to his elbow. “Chicken wings.”

“Je _sus_ ,” he complains, then tucks his elbows anyway.

It’s not a fair fight, but neither of them stepped into the ring expecting one. Bucky doesn’t coddle him, taking advantage of every opportunity he has to lay a hit—whenever Steve forgets to put his gloves up, or telegraphs his punches, or flaps his wings. The constant taps and touches wear on him after a while, which is probably the point, and after a couple tepid attempts at hitting back, he lashes out with the one-two-three combo. Bucky promptly hands his ass back to him with a solid stomach blow that doubles him over with a wheezy, “fuck.” 

"Coulda knocked you out if I'd wanted to." Bucky bounces a gloved hand off the back of his head. "Leadin' with that thick skull of yours—don't fuckin' do that."

Steve straightens, spitting fire, ready to tell Bucky what he can do with his own thick skull. Only the look in Bucky's eyes stops him short—a happy, relaxed look, equal parts amusement and concern. Like he's enjoying this, like he genuinely wants Steve to learn.

That’s the exact moment Steve decides he wants Bucky to be his boyfriend. 

Saying so amid a spar doesn't seem prudent, though, so he shakes off the hit and falls back into his fighting stance.

Bucky’s grin widens. “Good. You gonna pick any more fights with bigger guys?” 

“Uh. Yes.” After all, God hates a liar.

“Then you gotta learn how to roll him up.” 

“Roll him up?”

"Start low, work your way up the body. Guts, chest, jaw. Your problem is that you start high, every fuckin' time. You always go for the head. But you're a shorter guy, which ain't no bad thing. Just means you gotta think differently. Go in here—" He taps his abdomen. "You'll knock the wind outta him. Then here—" Chest. "Here." Jaw. "Then you back up and run like hell before he knows what hit him."

Despite his years of schoolyard scraps, Steve has never before thought of his size as a weapon. So the fact that Bucky sees it as an advantage? That’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t know how to respond. Easier to take action. So he steps forward to figure out the best way of laying out the three punches. Jab to the stomach, cross to the chest, hook to the jaw. He does it slowly at first, and while there are likely a half-dozen more effective punches he could throw, these are the ones he knows. The ones Bucky taught him. 

“Just like that,” Bucky says. “Find your opening.” 

Then Bucky’s dancing again, circling Steve with a challenge on his face. This time, Steve waits. Watches. Keeps his footwork light and anticipates his opportunity. When he spots it, he strikes fast. Bucky no doubt gave him the opening, but Steve still had to _notice_ it. To think. To take advantage. 

The first punch is weak, and the second barely makes contact. But the third? The third connects squarely with Bucky’s chiseled jaw. Elated, Steve forgets the fourth part of the roll-up: getting the fuck out of the way.

It's hard to say whether Bucky was expecting him to move, or is merely reacting instinctively to a punch in the face. All Steve really knows is that when Bucky catches him under the chin with a swift uppercut, he is knocked the fuck _down_. Upright one second, glorying in his victory, the next flat on his back, tasting blood in his mouth because he'd had his tongue tamped between his bottom teeth and the mouthguard.

Jesus, it hurts. It _hurts,_ and his heart is beating like hummingbird wings, but he doesn’t _care_ because he’s so fucking proud of the fact that he hit Bucky hard enough that Bucky forgot to pull his punch. (Or, at least, he hadn’t pulled it as much before.) 

With a grin and a grunt, he opens his eyes just as Bucky steps into view above him. At that moment, Steve knows that if he pities him—if he clucks and worries, apologizing for a fair hit in an unfair fight—he'll hate him for it a little.

Instead, Bucky smirks. “How’s that ceiling look, punk?” 

“Fuck you,” he says, spitting out the bloodied guard.

“Jesus,” he laughs, pulling off his glove to offer him a hand. “Don’t get blood on the floor. C’mon, let’s wash that mouth out.” 

"Yeah, alright," he agrees, body thrumming with purpose as he pulls off his glove and allows himself to be helped up. He retrieves the guard and clambers down from the ring, following Bucky back into the locker room, where it takes ten swig-swish-and-spits before the water running down the drain is pink rather than red. Good enough, so he splashes his face and straightens up, a joke on his lips. Bucky's expression stops him short, though, standing there at his side with that faraway look in his eyes.

“What?” Steve asks, suddenly self-conscious.

“Hmm? Oh. Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. How’s your mouth?”

“I’ll live.” He hesitates. “Hey.” 

"Hey, what?"

“You ah…are you seeing anyone else? Dating anyone?” 

Bucky blinks, confused. “No. Why would I do that?” 

"No reason," he says because Bucky doesn't need to know about his ill-fated date. "Just, we never really discussed, uh…us? This? Being exclusive?"

“Ah.” Bucky tips his head to the side, lips forming soundless words for a second before he shrugs. “Guess I already think of you as my guy.” 

So corny. Steve loves it. “That right?”

“Sure.” 

Pressing his sore tongue to the roof of his mouth, Steve smiles. “Suits me fine.”

“Now we got that settled,” Bucky teases. “You have fun?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I didn’t think I would but…yeah.”

“You did good.”

Grinning, he shrugs, and suddenly finds he doesn’t want the date to be over quite yet. After all, they only just became official. “You uh…you wanna get food or something?”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he gives him a once-over. “Sure. Might take a shower first.” 

The memory of the rejected blow job lingers like a papercut, even as he meets Bucky’s possible flirtation with a, “here, or at home?”

“Home.”

“You mind a little company?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “At home, or in the shower?”

“Both.”

Shrugging, he reaches for his duffel and tosses it over his shoulder, then slings his other arm around Steve’s back. “Oh, I’d say I’m more'n up for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This chapter was one of the kindling sparks for this story and its title, so here's hoping the execution was decent. Thanks to the kickboxing classes I have taken in my life and a lot of YouTube videos for helping with the know-how. Apologies for any errors--I am, as always, but a humble fic farmer. (Also, next week, congrats on the sex, gents? Maybe. Who knows. I'm not telling.)


	9. Chapter 9

The anticipation of the shared shower builds as they walk back to Bucky’s place, Steve’s usual couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude about hookups replaced with genuine excitement. He can only hope Bucky feels the same (and probably he does, considering how quickly he’s walking, forcing Steve into a half-jog to keep up). When they arrive, Bucky holds the door for him like a gentleman, which Steve’s starting to believe he might be. He then pulls off his jacket and glove once they’re inside, an apology written on his features.

“Shower’s kinda shitty,” he warns.

“Don’t care,” is Steve’s honest reply. He’s been thinking about soap and skin and sex for far too long to be bothered by something so trifling as rattling pipes. 

"C'mon, then," he says, no hint of nerves as he strides into the tiny bathroom. Steve doesn't spare a second, swallowing his self-consciousness as he follows. Bucky's not blind, but Steve's not hideous. No, he's not God-tier, but he's not gonna cry himself to sleep over his knock-knees and big nose. He's had enough decent sex to get over his hang-ups, and for whatever reason, Bucky seems to like him just the way he is, crooked spine and all.

As for Bucky? Bucky’s beautiful. And, as he begins to strip with an efficiency that isn’t even hinting at sexy, Steve can’t help staring. Christ, he’s a statue. Not a David, though. No smooth stone set on a plinth to be left alone for centuries, but marble that’s pocked and marred, shattered and pieced back together again. Scar tissue scattered across the hard planes of his body, telling countless stories Steve thinks he’d like to hear one day. 

As Bucky pulls off his undershirt, Steve takes a moment to admire the elegance of his prosthetic. The sheen on the metal is impeccable—nearly _organic,_ gold threads weaving the onyx plates together. He wishes he could meet the modern-day miller’s daughter who spun that particular straw. Wishes Bucky would tell him that story, too. 

The arm's immaculateness is offset by the place where it joins Bucky's body in a spider's web of scars—angry, red weals etched into his skin alongside faded silvery marks winding their way across his chest. It's ugly. To pretend otherwise would do a disservice to the trials Bucky's endured. Because ugly doesn't mean bad, and Steve resents that the world often treats it as such, demanding unmarred perfection for something to be considered lovely.

Bucky catches his eye, a flush rising in his cheeks as he turns away, the plating of the arm moving with him, rhomboids settling into place. It’s hard to tell whether he’s bothered by Steve’s scrutiny, or simply shy, but Steve feels badly all the same. So he steps forward, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist and pressing a kiss to the deepest, oldest-looking scar—a grooved line of gouged flesh turned white that spans the width of his back. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, fingers catching in the sparse, wiry hair covering Bucky’s abdomen. 

“Sometimes.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Me, too.” He turns just enough that he can press a kiss to Steve’s hairline, then pushes aside the shower curtain and turns on the water. 

Steve releases him and starts undressing. By the time he’s down to his boxers, Bucky’s down to his skin, and Steve sneaks a quick peek below deck, as it were. Because he’s human. Bucky catches him, of course, a smile in his voice as he chucks him gently under the chin. “All present and accounted for.” 

“Duly noted,” Steve grins.

Stepping nearer, Bucky hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Steve’s boxers to give it a snap before pushing the material down, eyes traveling southward. “I forgot this,” he says, gaze going distant as steam clouds the room. 

“Forgot what?” 

“The…” he shakes his head, smiles, and kisses Steve in lieu of an answer. 

Steve doesn't really need one—he gets the gist—and follows Bucky beneath the spray, drawing the curtain behind them. The tiny stall is as advertised: kinda shitty. The showerhead is rusty, and the tiles are cracked in places, broken in others. But it's clean, and the water pressure could strip paint off a barn, which Steve discovers when he steps beneath the jet and jumps back in surprise, making Bucky laugh.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like it.

“Coulda warned me.” 

“Thought you could handle anything, tough guy.”

Seeing an opportunity when it's hand-delivered, Steve reaches down to wrap a firm hand around Bucky's half-hard cock. "I handle some things better than others," he says primly. It's a terrible line, but who cares about terrible lines when his advances have Bucky biting back a cry.

“Jesus,” he says, stuttering through the exclamation.

"Him, too," Steve agrees, which doesn't make any sense, but again: who cares? He's already halfway to his knees, and Bucky's not stopping him this time. All he can manage, in fact, is leaning back onto the tiles, water pounding against his chest, cascading down his body in a way that's liable to drown Steve if he's not careful. Eh, he's dealt with worse for less, and he's up for a challenge.

He looks up and can't resist giving Bucky a wink before focusing on the task at hand, guiding the head of Bucky's dick past his lips. (Mercifully, his earlier sock-to-the-jaw isn't bothering him much; thank fuck for small miracles.) The salt-sweat taste reminds him that they've spent most of the afternoon worked into a lather, and fuck if that not-entirely-pleasant muskiness doesn't ping the gross-out-pleasure center of Steve's strange kink-minded brain, sending him straight to heaven.

All that, plus Bucky's uncut. Finding an American guy with an uncut prick is the holy fucking grail as far as Steve's concerned. A kindred spirit, so to speak. Because Sarah and Joseph Rogers—despite countless haranguing lectures—had decided circumcision was an unnecessary act to inflict on their bouncing baby boy. This means that Steve has been subject to a lifetime of dicks not-quite-like-his, attached to men who are kind of confused by his in return. This doesn't make the problem unsolvable—he knows what he likes, and he's not shy about sharing—it's just nice that Bucky's the same, mostly because he's so intimately acquainted with what's likely to get him going.

As Steve continues working him over, Bucky slumps further against the wall, angling the showerhead so the water sluices off around his hips, rather than on Steve's head. Most of it, anyway. He seems to be resisting the urge to touch Steve while he's down there, which is fine. Probably better that Steve sets the pace, considering their surroundings, but he wouldn't mind rougher treatment in a less precarious situation. Which isn't to say Bucky's not enthusiastic. Far from it—he seems to be enjoying himself very much. And he is _noisy_ , with gasping, full-throated moans mingling with pleas for Steve to keep going, which grow louder whenever Steve focuses on the head of his now fully-hard shaft. That's a relief—deep-throating isn't his favorite thing, despite liking it rough, on account of the repressed asthma trauma. To compensate, however, he's become extremely efficient with his tongue.

Bracketing one hand on the outside of Bucky's thighs, his fingers dig into the hard muscle. He moves the other between Bucky's legs, cradling his balls, experimenting to see what he likes. Turns out, he wants firm touches rather than fleeting attention, so Steve gives him what he's after. Strong and sure in his ministrations, setting a rhythm that is intentional and intense, until Bucky's metal hand strikes the tile behind him and Steve hears the porcelain shatter.

 _Awesome,_ he decides, giving himself a mental high-five.

“Steve,” Bucky groans, voice desperate and _oh-_ so-close. Steve redoubles his efforts, and for the first time, Bucky’s flesh hand moves to touch his shoulder. Only he doesn’t guide him forward, but pushes him back instead, then back again, until he’s sitting on his heels, staring up through the steam and the spray, confused and disconcerted. 

“Sorry, did I do something wrong?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. Just…” He uses the hand on Steve’s shoulder to draw him to his feet. Steve’s knees protest mightily, but the minor discomfort is overwritten when Bucky pulls him in for a hug, vulnerable as he clings tight. 

The slim line of Steve’s body molds easily to Bucky’s trembling frame, and he begins to rub a slow circle against his broad back. “You’re alright. I’m right here.” 

The words sound trite in his mouth, but Bucky sighs a shaky sigh and nods like he needed to hear it. Christ, he's really going through something—something more significant than Steve—muscle memory and misfiring neurons, maybe, sending a signal that says _no, stop, you don’t deserve to enjoy this_. Steve doesn't know if that has to do with the hurt he's suffered, or merely some latent homophobic programming crawling out of the blank spots in his mind, but he hates that it's happening. Wants to fix it if he can.

“Did you hurt your knees?” Bucky mumbles eventually, the question incongruous enough that Steve is shaken from his line of spurious reasoning. 

“What? No. I’m fine. Are you?” 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, dodging the question, voice shaky but undeniably present. 

There's a broader discussion to be had, Steve knows, but they're not having it under the stream of rapidly cooling water (the hot water heater apparently being another less-than-ideal part of Bucky's living situation). "Yeah, alright."

It takes a few minutes to get situated, toweling off just enough before heading for Bucky's mattress, droplets of water clinging to their bare skin. Steve's not sure what's going to happen when they get there, but he'd be fine if it was just kissing. Just touching. Just talking. Just _Bucky_. 

They end up on their knees, face to face, the lumpy mattress a damn sight more comfortable than the shower floor. Bucky draws his left hand down Steve’s cheek, while Steve finds himself transfixed by the water clinging to Bucky’s long eyelashes. The curve of his mouth as he smiles. The shift of the metal plates in his shoulder when his thumb trails across Steve’s lower lip. Unable to resist, Steve opens his mouth in response to the action. Bites down as hard as he dares, the metal unyielding.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, voice gone ragged.

Steve doesn’t speak, just inches forward, taking more of his thumb. 

“Sometimes,” he continues, eyes catching on something over Steve’s shoulder. “When it’s—when I’m close? I don’t…I can’t…” he closes his eyes. “I don’t like letting myself.” 

The implications of that are in line with Steve’s assumptions, but it makes him feel sick, all the same. He releases Bucky’s thumb and leans forward, kissing him lightly. “Because you don’t like how it feels?”

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Because you think you don’t…uh…deserve to?” Which is so fucking far above Steve’s new-boyfriend-level pay grade, he doesn’t know where to start, yet there he is, fumbling in the dark.

“That’s…closer,” Bucky agrees.

“What if…” he hesitates, out of his depth but trying, for Bucky’s sake more than his own. “What if I think you deserve to, though? What if I want you to?” 

Bucky frowns. Shrugs. Cuts his eyes away. 

Steve lays a hand on his cheek, keeping it there until Bucky chooses to look back at him. “It felt good before we stopped, right? You were close?”

An emphatic nod. 

“But you didn’t feel right finishing?”

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

“Not to be indelicate, but have you, on your own?”

Bucky nods again, fingers drumming against his thigh. “Not often. Sometimes. But when I shoot off by myself, it’s just ah…” He shrugs.

“Biological imperative?”

“Something like that. What we were doing, though, that was different. I _liked_ that.”

Steve can’t help but feel flattered, a small smile playing across his lips. “But finishing with me, that was too much?”

“Felt like it.”

“Is it because it’s your first time with another guy?”

“That’s—” Huffing out a laugh, Bucky shakes his head. “I remember suck jobs. Mouth’s a mouth.”

Steve feigns offense, giving his arm a push. “You tramp.”

“Takes one to know one, I’d wager,” he grins, waggling his eyebrows before sobering slightly. “From what I can recall, though, I’m no virgin, least not when it comes to certain things. I just ah…got stuck on it. Couldn’t let go.”

Steve nods, an idea slowly forming. The shower had been all about Bucky’s pleasure, but maybe if he can get him to focus on something beyond his own release—introduce a complicating factor or sensation—he can ease him into an orgasm. Because while he’s no Casanova, he fucks, and in the course of that fucking has amassed some half-decent tricks and preferences he thinks could help Bucky work through the issue. He hopes so, anyway. “So what if we switched things up? Tried to get you unstuck?”

"Whatever you want," he replies without hesitation, which is worrying in its own right because it's not about what Steve wants. Not exclusively, anyway.

"Nah. This is a two-way street, Buck. Except uh, you're driving the car, and I'm…let's say navigating."

Bucky blinks, cocking his head to the side. “What’s that mean?”

“It means that I want to try something different.”

“Try what?”

“I’d like to try fucking you,” he says candidly. “Carefully. If that’s alright with you.”

Mouth dropping open, Bucky’s lips twist into a grin that’s mostly curiosity with a sprinkling of excitement. “Shit. Yeah. That’s…yeah, that’d be alright. But uh, how’s that gonna work exactly?”

“Slot A, meet tab B, for the most part.”

That makes him laugh again—always a welcome sound. “Punk. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

"Look," he says, leaning forward. "Much as I enjoyed that little show in the shower, when it comes to the mechanics of this, I'm flying blind."

"That's what I'm here for. But I also…ah, keeping the car thing going, I'm not gonna lay out the route in advance." Because as far as Steve's concerned, if Bucky's thinking ahead rather than living in the moment, it's going to be tough to get him out of his head. "I'll give you turn-by-turn directions, but if you think we're headed the wrong way, you tell me. The same goes from me to you. No harm, no foul—we stop if somebody says stop. You get me?"

“Yeah. Hands up, elbows tucked.”

“Way to mix those metaphors,” he teases, shadowboxing a one-two into the air near Bucky’s chest. “Let’s go a couple rounds?”

“Yes, please,” Bucky replies with a widened grin, which is about as enthusiastic as consent can get.

“Perfect. Wait there.” 

He leaves Bucky with two more quick kisses before going to retrieve his sweats, which are still crumpled on the damp bathroom floor. Pulling out his wallet, he retrieves a (fresh!) condom and two small packets of lube. Because he is a responsible citizen, and because he’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure Bucky won’t have supplies on hand. (Not to mention the fact that Bucky hasn’t prepped, but Steve will just offer a prayer for mercy to the gods of spontaneous anal sex and hope for the best.) 

When he returns, though, he finds Bucky sitting rigid, hands on his thighs, and a line of consternation drawn from his forehead to his chin. A marked difference from how Steve had left him, to say the least.

“What’s going on?” he asks, settling in beside him. 

“What if I can’t?” Bucky sighs, anxiety written across his brow.

“Can’t what?”

“Ah…do what you want me to do?”

“Oh.” Steve smiles, pressing a light kiss to his bare shoulder and tossing the supplies onto the mattress. “It doesn’t matter if you can or if you can’t, I only care that you’re gonna try. We may have to experiment a few times until we get it right, is all.”

“Because you’re navigating.”

“And you’re driving.”

Bucky smiles, the reassurance seemingly enough to quell his nerves. He reaches over to pick up the condom, turning it over in his hands. “You don’t gotta worry about getting me in the family way, you know.” 

Steve raises a brow, because there’s naive, and then there’s that. “Gonna assume you’re joking.”

“Ah,” Bucky realizes. “Good ol’ Cupid’s itch. They gave us a lotta lectures about that one in the service.”

Steve snorts. “Can’t say I’ve heard that euphemism before. But yeah. I’ve been tested pretty recently, and I know you haven’t been with anyone in a while, but…” Life is a mystery, and Bucky might be missing a few relevant memories, is all. Steve can wait. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Sure, right.” Dropping the condom, Bucky transfers his attention to the lube, squinting at the tiny letters on the packaging. After a moment, he gives a grunt of affirmation, then hands the packet to Steve and rolls from his kneeling position onto all fours. 

Steve smiles a little, dropping a hand to his calf and squeezing. “You’re driving, Buck, but are you sure?”

Bucky looks over his shoulder, blinking. “What?”

“If this is how you want to try, we can try. But I gotta admit, I’m a fan of seeing someone’s face.”

Blinking, Bucky turns onto his side. “I just thought…”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s _efficient_. It’s just not all that sexy. In my opinion.”

"I want to do what you want, then," he says, ceding control so quickly that Steve's not entirely sure it's voluntary.

“That’s convenient,” he says, bending to press a kiss to Bucky’s right shoulder. “Because I want to do what _you_ want.” 

“Steve…” 

“Bucky, I mean it. I’m here to make this good for you, so if you’d prefer it like that, I’m all for trying.” 

“I don’t…” he shakes his head. “I just _thought_. But…” A shrug. “You're navigating.” 

The declaration has weight behind it, so Steve takes him at his word and runs a hand up his thigh. “Alright, then. First thing, roll onto your back.” 

Bucky complies, legs splayed, cock half-hard as he looks up at Steve, who has never before felt this much responsibility for a fuck. He's not entirely sure he's equipped to handle it, but he knows he wants to take care of Bucky more than he's wanted just about anything else in his short life. There are a couple different positions they could try, but considering how much bigger than him Bucky is, the one he decides on is strategic—modified missionary, as it were, or a front-facing leg glider. Jesus, but he hates the names people come up with for this shit.

Shifting up, he kneels by Bucky's waist, then leans down to kiss him as he slips the condom over his cock with practiced efficiency. Once that's done, he breaks the kiss, giving Bucky a smile and reaching for the lube. "Alright," he says after brief consideration, tapping Bucky's right leg. "Put that guy up here." 'Here' being Steve's left shoulder, which will be bearing most of the weight. Bucky complies, and Steve adjusts himself as needed, straddling Bucky's left thigh while tweaking his calf, so it rests comfortably against Steve's shoulder. The position puts Bucky's backside within easy reach of both Steve's fingers and his prick, while allowing him to study Bucky's face and gauge his enjoyment during the act.

“How’s that feel?” he asks once they’re settled, using his teeth to rip open the first packet of lube. (It’s cheap shit, but it’ll get the job done. If they’re going to do this on the regular, though, he’ll be investing in the good stuff.)

"Strangely comfortable," Bucky says and seems to mean it, eyes following Steve's every movement as he coats the fingers of his right hand. The left, meanwhile, wraps around Bucky's thigh to hold him in place.

Once Steve’s squeezed out everything the packet has to offer, he moves his hand between Bucky’s legs, carefully breaching him with his index finger. Bucky doesn’t offer up any resistance, save for a sigh and a brief closing of his eyes. Steve’s careful in opening him up, letting him get used to the sensation. With a different, more experienced partner, this much work wouldn’t be necessary, but with Bucky, he takes his time, then uses the remainder of the slick stuff to coat his prick.

“You’re gonna tell me if it hurts, right?” he says, giving Bucky’s thigh a tap as he lines up, sliding his shaft along his cleft, mostly to tease. 

“I can take it,” is Bucky’s response, which is not the same as yes. 

“Whether or not you can take it isn’t the issue.” Turning his head, he presses a kiss to Bucky’s knee. “I need you to tell me if it’s too much, because I’d be pissed at myself if I hurt you. Yeah?”

The rephrasing gets through, and Bucky nods, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Yes.” 

“Good.” Steve sighs, the overwhelming urge to _push_ screaming in his hindbrain. “Ready to try?” 

Another nod, and Steve takes a deep breath before beginning to ease in. Just the tip at first, barely an inch, the tightness and pressure a balm to soothe any libidinous soul. It’s been too goddamn long since he’s topped, and he’s forgotten how transcendent that enveloping warmth can be. 

“Unf,” Bucky manages, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Hurts?” 

“Not…no,” he replies. “Just…weird.” 

Steve understands that more than most, and smiles a little. "Like taking a shit backward?"

The crudeness breaks through Bucky’s defenses, and his eyes open as he bursts out laughing. “Jesus. That’s disgusting.”

“But am I wrong?”

“…not so much, no.”

“See? Just try and breathe through it. It’ll get better.” 

Bucky breathes, and Steve widens his stance, which allows him to claim another inch. Bucky’s cock gives a twitch, which he wants to reward, so he fists his still-slick hand around Bucky’s dick, giving it a few earnest pumps. Bucky gasps at the sensation, hips leaving the bed, body spasming. 

“Sorry,” he says, cock pulsing against Steve’s palm. “Sorry, I didn’t—” 

“Bucky,” he soothes, continuing to stroke him, but slowly. “You don’t have to apologize. I like this. I like everything you do, alright?” 

“Ah-huh,” he assents, as Steve slides forward another slow, torturous inch. “Fuck- _uh_ -huck.” 

"Almost there," he says, though it's only half-true. Tightening his grip on Bucky's thigh, he feels a bead of sweat roll down his forehead as he slides deeper and deeper still. Bucky opens up to him by degrees, muscles relaxing until Steve's fully seated, both of them breathing heavily. "That's it," he says, luxuriating in the sensation. "I'm in."

Bucky affixes his attention on Steve’s face with an expression of desperate intensity. “I want to touch you.”

Steve smiles, teasing him a little. “Nobody’s stopping you.” 

“I don’t—” Helpless, he lifts his prosthetic, then lets it fall. It’s hard to say if he’s anxious about hurting Steve, or worried Steve won’t want to be touched by that part of him. Either assumption is wrong, of course.

“Touch me,” Steve breathes, pulling back a scant few centimeters before sliding home once more. “Touch me, Buck,” he repeats, and it’s not a request. Bucky does, cold metal closing over Steve’s hip, fingers splaying across flushed skin. “That feels so good,” he praises, swiping his thumb across the head of Bucky’s cock.

“I—” Bucky shift his hips, eyes fixed on Steve’s stroking hand. 

“I want you to show me what you like,” he says, reluctantly releasing his grip so he can take hold of Bucky’s left hand, drawing it between his legs. “Touch yourself for me.”

Bucky’s expression darkens, and Steve worries that he’s given him too much, too fast. Allowed him space to live inside the blank spots and worries in his head. So he backtracks, closing the gap, navigating them out of a tough spot as best he can. “It would make me happy to watch you enjoy yourself,” he corrects, dropping his hand to Bucky’s thigh. “No pressure. Can you do that for me?” 

Bucky groans, nodding his head. “For you.”

Steve smiles. “For me. For you. I’m gonna pick up the pace a little now, huh?”

Nodding, Bucky starts stroking himself, which is all the impetus Steve needs to fuck him in earnest. There's not much to it after that, sex being both an instant and an eternity rolled into one. Each thrust is one step up the mountainside, heading toward the summit and, eventually, down the other side. It feels _fantastic_ , of course, with Bucky making sweet, breathy little noises beneath him. Every so often, Steve must hit his prostate, because those thrusts light him up, moaning and throwing his head back as he gives himself over to the good feeling, the hand on his prick moving that much faster. Steve sighs, close now, but _desperate_ for Bucky to be enjoying this, too—to be feeling the same tingling, mounting pressure, as his thoughts are driven toward stupid, desperate fantasies. All the filthy things he wants to do to Bucky spilling out of him in a fountain of dirty desires just as his orgasm hits. He shouts out loud, five seconds of pulsating bliss followed by sheer, manic overstimulation when he comes crashing down the other side, Bucky’s hole spasming around his softening prick.

"Jesusfuckinggoddamn," he mumbles, taking every name in vain as he slips out, his higher brain functioning enough for him to realize that Bucky hasn't finished yet, and he can't leave him hanging at such a pivotal moment. So he pushes two fingers into his slick passage, locating his prostate and pressing against it firmly. That draws a long, guttural moan from Bucky, writhing against the mattress, body suffused with a blush spreading across his chest and down his arm. No wonder—in Steve's experience, digits are much more dexterous than dicks, and he sets to work pushing Bucky close to the edge before easing back, then going in again.

Because Bucky’s so close. He’s _so_ fucking close. Steve’s sure of it, watching him tug at his prick with anxious intensity, a whine caught in his throat. But still, he can’t quite get there. Can’t quite _allow_ himself to tip over that ledge. 

So, Steve will allow it instead. Turns his head to nip at the inside of Bucky’s trembling calf, whispering, “come for me, Buck. You said you’d show me what you like…” 

“Can’t,” he moans. “Steve…” 

“Yeah, you can,” he replies, the haze of his own orgasm clearing enough that he can find the right switches to flip. “Please? It’d make me so happy…” 

Bucky shakes his head, the hand on Steve’s hip gripping tight enough to leave a bruise, his body’s needs fighting against the scars left on his brain. Determined to help him win that battle, Steve reaches down to palm his balls, rolling them between his fingers while applying firmer pressure to his prostate, pleased to see Bucky pick up the pace of his strokes in response. 

"Now, Buck," he commands, and by some miracle, it works: Bucky's mouth falls open in a soundless cry as he shoots white across his stomach. The orgasm seems endless, body held rigid, every muscle clamping down like a vice. By the time his shaking subsides, tears are mingling with the sweat on his temples, a sob wracking his frame as he returns to himself.

“Thank you, thank you…” he mumbles, shivering now, a raw wound ripped open.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, tugging his fingers free. “Hey, Buck.” He lowers Bucky’s leg from his shoulder to the mattress, then drapes himself atop him, pressing kisses to his jaw, covering him as best he’s able. “Thank _you_. You were so good—” 

Bucky shuts him up with a crushing hug, sweat and spunk growing stale between them as he holds fast for an eternity, until his tears have dried, and he once more finds his voice. "I'm sorry."

“Hey,” Steve says, leaning up to kiss him and giving his bottom lip a nip before pulling back. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I—”

“But you what?”

“I…” he trails off. “Don’t know. Just felt like I needed to.”

“Well, you don’t. That was…you were so beautiful.” It’s an overly sentimental cliche, but Steve figures that if there were ever a place for one, it’s in the afterglow of your boyfriend’s first partnered orgasm in God knows how long.

"That…shit," Bucky says like maybe he doesn't know what to do with such an effusive display of goop from his usually prickly partner. Steve understands, and (not wanting to stay a soppy dishrag forever) sits up, wincing as their sticky skin separates, jizz matting their respective body hair into strange sculptures. (Bucky being Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug, while Steve is an extra-fuzzy peach.)

“We’re gonna need showers,” he declares, pulling off the condom and tying a knot in the end. “Separate ones, if we wanna get anything accomplished.” 

“You go,” Bucky says. “I’ll…I’m good here.” 

"Sure about that? I don't mind waiting if you need another minute."

“Go,” he says, a slow smile spreading, as if he's shocked by the truth of his statement. “I absolutely am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who powered through to the smut - here's hoping it delivered. Hope you're all having a good week, and thank you as always for the kind comments.


	10. Chapter 10

“So, my boyfriend’s gonna come over for dinner on Sunday.”

The words are out of Steve's mouth before he thinks about what he's saying, standing there in the produce section of the co-op with his mother while she squeezes a tomato. One second he's considering her prowess in judging tomato squishiness, and the next thing he knows, he's decided it's time for Bucky to meet the family.

Granted, he hasn’t actually _asked_ Bucky yet, as the idea only occurred to him two seconds ago. But Bucky’s going to be in town, and they had tentative plans for the weekend anyway. Why not invite him to dinner? They’ve been official boyfriends for three weeks after all. 

Sarah straightens, puts the tomato into her hand-knitted reusable produce bag, then nods. “Great,” she says like it’s no big deal. “We’ll roast a chicken.” 

Blinking at the nonchalance, Steve grabs a box of powdered donuts from a nearby display and tosses them into the cart. (He will eat at least six tonight in place of dinner, because they're terrible and he loves them.) "Don't you…I mean. Do you have any questions?" Surely she does—surely she's not _this_ cool. 

Sarah turns down aisle two to get the cat food she insists on leaving out for neighborhood strays, meaning that despite not having a cat, they actually have like _thirty_ fucking cats. "Sure, I do."

"Well, you can ask."

“Is that so?” she says, the corners of her mouth turning up. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sarah grabs a tin of the cheap stuff before turning to him with a knowing grin. “Ma-aaaaaaaaah,” she says, in pitch-perfect imitation. “Leeme-a- _looooone_. Quit aaaaaskin’!” 

“I do _not_ sound like that.” 

“You sure as shit do when the topic of your love life comes up. So I decided I’m on a diet of voluntary information only.” 

"Okay, but..." He trails off. "This one is uh, you should ask me about this one."

“Oh yeah? This is Gloves, still?” 

"Yeah," he says, trailing his fingers over the Fancy Feast without meeting her eyes because he wants to have the conversation, but that doesn't make him any less bashful about the subject matter.

“What am I, made of money? Meow Mix, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he starts, just as she breaks in with, “so since when is Gloves your boyfriend?” 

"Err…" Steve shrugs. "Couple of weeks now, I guess?" (Three weeks and two days but who's counting?)

“What’s his name again? Buster?”

“Bucky.”

“That’s right, I knew it was something silly.”

“Ma!” 

“What? It is. So what made you want it to be a…what do you call it? A status change? Updating the Facebook?” 

Steve tamps down a smile. “I dunno. I just didn’t want to see anyone else, and he felt the same way.” 

Sarah hums under her breath like she's drawing conclusions about the fact that Steve's been spending quite a few nights out of the house of late. "You must like him a lot," she continues, heading down the cereal aisle, the statement undoubtedly her way of acknowledging that she's not so oblivious to Steve's extracurricular activities as he would hope.

“I do.” 

“What is it about him that you like so much?” 

It’s a very _mom_ question—similar to the one she’d asked the first time he’d brought Bucky up—but he has a better answer now .”He treats me like Lorraine does, I guess.”

Sarah raises a brow, reaching for the Shredded Wheat. “Oh?”

“Not…” he shakes his head. “A lot of people that I date kind of…treat me like I’m less-than, or like I need taking care of?” And while Steve doesn’t give much of a shit about being small these days, the world has certain boxes it likes to shove people into, and he doesn’t fit into the one marked ‘appropriately masculine.’ “But Bucky, he just…he doesn’t care. Or, well, he _cares_ , but not about that. I’m not explaining it right.” 

“You’re explaining it fine. It’s like he makes you feel a certain way?”

“Sort of, yeah.” 

“I get it—I felt something like that with your father, and it’s not easily described. But if you got it, you got it. Hey, can you reach that?” 

She’s pointing to a box on a top shelf, which Steve can just about manage, because while he’s short, she is minuscule, standing one whole inch below her claimed height of five foot even. Knocking the cereal into the cart, he smiles at her. “I think I got it. That feeling.” Which doesn’t pain him to admit, weirdly enough—it’s kind of exciting, actually.

“Then I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

With that, she’s off to the dairy section. 

* * *

Steve isn’t expecting Bucky to show up in a suit. 

The flowers he's carrying? Sure, yeah, it isn't unheard of to bring flowers when meeting a parent. But the three-piece navy number he's sporting when Steve meets him at the top of the stairs? It's a sight, especially considering that Steve's wearing nothing fancier than jeans and a hoodie.

“Um. Hi,” he greets.

Bucky smiles, fussing with the bouquet, which is nicer than anything they sell at the corner bodega. “Hi,” he replies, stepping into the apartment when Steve steps back. God, he’s big—it’s easy to forget that until it’s thrust into stark relief, standing in a space cultivated by two rather small people, instead of those places he’s carved out for himself. Gargantuan and gorgeous in their narrow hallway as he bends to kiss Steve lightly on the mouth. 

“You brought me flowers?” 

“Brought your _ma_ flowers,” Bucky corrects, shifting the bouquet back and forth as he strips off his gloves, sticking them into the pocket of his suit. 

“Ah,” Steve mock-frowns. “Flowers for my ma. What’s that make me?”

“Chopped liver,” he replies, which prompts Steve to kiss him once more, just as Sarah’s voice rings out from the kitchen. She’s undoubtedly been giving them a minute, but curiosity has gotten the best of her, and she wants to see Bucky for herself. 

“We’re coming,” Steve calls, giving Bucky a grin before heading toward the kitchen.

Following dutifully, Bucky puts a hand on the small of Steve’s back, and Steve doesn’t miss the fact that it’s the metal one. He’s been getting better with that—comfort growing as he reassures himself time and again that he can touch and take and want.

“Ma,” he says, passing through the kitchen archway. “This is Bucky.” 

Sarah, who is snapping green beans over the sink, turns around, a pleasant ‘company’s coming’ smile on her face. Steve watches for the moment she clocks that Bucky is handsome and strong and a million miles out of Steve’s usual league. Not that she’d admit it, but she does have eyes. “Hi there, Bucky,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron, then offering him a shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

(This isn’t _strictly_ true, but Steve isn’t going to call her out.)

Bucky shakes with his right hand, suddenly stiff-backed. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

The formality lights Sarah up like so many dollar store light bulbs, her grin spreading. “Ma’am,” she echoes, giving Steve a pointed look. “You see this respect, Steven Grant?” 

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, nudging Bucky. “Isn’t she funny?”

Bucky blinks; Sarah laughs. Clicks her tongue and pats his arm. “Just call me Sarah—everyone else does.” 

Bucky is downright flustered by the request, eyes starting to drift, going to the place he goes when his mind hasn't caught up with whatever he's processing. Luckily, Steve had given Sarah a heads up on the memory-PTSD issues, which she'd accepted at face-value: former military. Accident. Prosthetic. She knows as much as Steve does, at any rate, which isn't very much at all.

“I’ll get a vase,” he says, wanting to give Bucky a moment. Only that moment isn’t needed, because Bucky breaks from his reverie with, “Sarah, then. These are for you.” 

“And aren’t they gorgeous?” she replies, taking the bouquet and nodding at Steve, who’s already making moves to retrieve their handy-dandy stepladder from its nook between the fridge and the counter. “How’d you know daisies are my favorite?” 

“I didn’t,” Bucky says, not quite picking up the banter, which makes Sarah laugh as she directs him to one of the chairs she and Steve use on the rare occasion they eat in the kitchen. 

“Sit.”

Bucky sits, comically oversized against the plastic Ikea frame, knees practically at his chin. Steve grins down from the step stool, sticking out his tongue before retrieving the top-shelf vase and setting it on the counter. Once he’s back on solid ground, he puts away the ladder and turns to Bucky. “You want a drink?”

“Water?”

“Just water? We got beer…” 

Bucky thinks that over before nodding once, a tiny smile creeping over him. “Beer, then.” 

"Coming right up." Steve heads for the fridge, taking the time to grab white wine for his mother, too.

“I’m afraid we’re not gourmands,” Sarah says, snipping a flower stem. “I hope roast chicken and rice is alright with you.”

“Sounds good. I think—” A shake of his head, smile fading. 

“Hmm?” 

"Been a long time since I had something home-cooked, is all," he settles on after a thoughtful pause.

Sarah waves a hand, placing the vase under the running tap. “It’s only minute rice, honey. Nothing special. Stevie, who raised you? Be a duck and take Bucky’s jacket, huh? It’s hot in here.” 

"I'm getting your wine!"

“Did I ask for wine?” She tosses a discarded flower stem at his head, which he deflects with a swat. “Hey, lookit those reflexes, kid. Who’d you get that from?” 

“Sure as shit wasn’t you.” He scoots out of her way before she can tweak his ear, but only just. 

“You see how he talks to me?” She looks at Bucky with an aggrieved sigh. “No respect.” 

Bucky tries a broader smile on for size. "His reflexes aren't usually that good," he agrees, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Steve. (And if Steve notices the outline of a tank top beneath Bucky's slightly sweat-damp button-down? Well, that's between him and God. Stanley Kowalski, eat your fucking heart out.)

“You wanna come over here and say that, Buck?” Folding the jacket over his arm, he harrumphs for good measure. “We’re due for a rematch.” 

“Wait, what?” Sarah asks.

“Bucky’s teaching me how to box.” 

Sarah purses her lips, which could be good or bad, as she’s never been the biggest fan of his tendency to bludgeon his way through life. Fair enough, considering the number of hours she’s spent on his bloody noses and scraped skin. “Huh. And you’re good at that, Bucky?” 

“He’s great at it.”

“Didn’t ask you, muppet.” 

Jesus, with the nicknames. Steve's cheeks go red, and he hastens to hang Bucky's jacket on the back of the other chair.

“I’m decent,” Bucky replies. “But I mostly did it because Steve’ll get into fights whether I teach him or not. I figured I ought to show him how to hold his own when he does.” 

Sarah relaxes and turns back to the business of arranging her flowers. “You could learn something from that, Steven.” 

“Oh, my God,” he mutters. “I got this shit in stereo now.” 

“And aren’t you lucky?” she trills. 

Steve opens his mouth to retort when Bucky breaks in to ask if Sarah needs any help with the green beans. That’s enough to render his mother further smitten, so Steve leaves them to the cooking while he sets the table. Twenty minutes later, beans blanched and chicken roasted, he and Bucky are sitting down in the dining room while Sarah finishes in the kitchen. It strikes Steve that Bucky fits very well at their table—that too-big slab of wood, purchased by his grandmother at a stoop sale in the seventies. They hardly ever use it full-size, preferring to drop the leaf and keep it pushed against the wall. For company, though, they open it up in all its incongruous, old-fashioned glory, dark wood showing signs of age, scratched and chipped in places, veneer worn thin in others.

Bucky skims his right hand over the recently polished surface and hums a low note. “I can fix this.” 

“I didn’t know it was broken,” Steve teases. 

“The scratches,” he clarifies. “I know how.”

“You’re a regular jack of all trades.”

“My dad,” he begins, squinting into the distance as Steve reaches out. Covers his hand and gives it a squeeze so Bucky can find his way back when he’s ready. “He restored furniture. That was his—I—he taught me. I remember him teaching me.”

“What’s that?” Sarah asks, entering with a bowl of steaming green beans.

“Bucky’s dad restored furniture. He says he can fix the table.” 

“Oh, honey, this was already beat to hell when my ma bought it.” 

“I could, though,” Bucky insists, pulling his hand away to run his thumb over a groove made by an overly enthusiastic seven-year-old Steve, who’d found his grandfather’s hammer and decided to experiment. “I’d like to, that is.”

Sarah reaches for the carving knife, exchanging a glance with Steve. “Well, we wouldn’t _stop_ you…” 

Bucky blinks, shaking his head, cheeks turning pink as if realizing how strange the offer might come across the first time you visit someone's home. "Sorry. I shouldn't presume…"

“Maybe you could teach me,” Steve says, knowing that tinge of mortification all too well. “Boxing, restoring furniture—get me knitting and you won’t be able to tell the two of us apart.” 

Bucky nods, absently, missing the joke as he stands with a stammered, “I’m. I was. I’ll be. Excuse me.” 

There’s no time to raise a protest before he’s gone, the familiar squeak of the sticking bathroom door greeting them seconds later. 

Sarah frowns, the knife in her hand scraping the plate as she puts it down. “Did I upset him?” 

“No.” Steve’s pretty sure she didn’t, anyway. “I told you, he just gets—” Frowning, he shrugs, already caught up in concern for Bucky. Sarah. Himself. Because if she doesn’t like Bucky—or, not _liking_ him isn’t the problem, but the chance that she’ll think he’s too damaged. Too broken. He doesn’t know what he’ll do then, because he’s so desperate for her approval he can taste it.

“Lost?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“Lucky he has you to light the way home.”

Steve's heart turns over in his chest, and he nods, reaching for the serving spoon to start fixing Bucky a plate in the hopes that he won't be gone too long. Soon enough, there's a flush. Running water. Bucky returning in that slow, deliberate way of his, taking his seat and offering them an apologetic smile.

“I guess Steve mentioned about how I got some problems,” he says, settling his napkin in his lap. 

“We all have problems,” says Sarah. “And if giving this old table some attention would make you happy, you’re welcome here anytime you want to try.”

Sarah’s two for two on not-so-subtle allusions, Steve decides, reaching over to touch Bucky’s knee beneath the table, relieved to see his shoulders un-hunch by a fraction. 

Dinner's fine after that. Not perfect, but fine. Bucky tries hard and has a tendency to get himself flustered, losing focus when he overthinks about one of Sarah's questions. Steve's used to that now—Bucky's slow blinks and deliberate pauses—but seeing those reactions through his mother's eyes makes him worry that she'll grow suspicious or concerned. Deep down, though, he believes that she won't. Because Sarah is a caretaker, and while she understands the difficulties that come with looking after other people, she also sees the value.

Once the food is finished, Bucky steps up to clear the table. Sarah beams, tutting at Steve. “You see this volunteering, Steven? Didn’t even have to ask him!”

“We eat in front of the TV!”

“Trays clear as well as tables.”

“Ma.”

“You can do the dishes.”

“I’ll help,” Bucky says. Steve flashes him a grateful smile. 

Doing the dishes with a partner turns out to be sort of fun. Steve washes while Bucky dries, stacking the plates next to the sink. Sarah, meanwhile, disappears into her bedroom to change. 

“Her shift starts at seven,” Steve explains. 

“She’s a nurse, right?” Bucky asks. 

“Uh-huh.” He hesitates. “You’re gonna stay after she goes, right?” 

“Sure.”

“I’ll show you my room.”

Bucky smiles, briefly, before turning back to his damp dishes. 

Half an hour later, Sarah’s out the door. The moment she’s gone, Steve slides the deadbolt into place and looks back at Bucky, silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“She _likes_ you,” he says, traversing the short distance to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist in a way that feels endearingly domestic. 

“Ah—” Bucky shrugs, making himself small in that way he has. “She’s nice.”

“You’re nice,” he replies, kissing him once. Twice. Three times. “Come see my room.” 

They walk through the living room, then Sarah's bedroom, then into Steve's. Bucky stops short in the doorway, looking back and forth. Steve thinks he might make a joke about the railroad-style setup, but his eyes are getting that _look_ again, and after a moment he says, "I know this. My sisters and me…there weren't windows. Just…" He turns, going back into Sarah's room, crossing to a small air shaft that lets in no light, but allows some circulation from the outside when it's open "We had something like this. Our apartment was smaller, though. My parents slept in the second room by the kitchen."

“Buck?” Steve steps nearer, touching his back.

“We weren’t the only family living there, I remember, and—” He puts a hand to his temple. “Damn it.” 

“Bucky,” he says, voice firmer, recognizing a need for navigation. “Come into my room, huh? Let’s talk about it.”

Bucky responds. Follows. Surveys the small room that Steve had taken pains to neaten earlier in the day, his navy blue comforter hanging evenly, the last remnants of daylight spilling across its surface.

“Sorry,” Bucky says as Steve shuts the door. 

“For what?”

"For…I dunno. I'm remembering more lately," he says as if the idea is anathema.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Isn’t it,” he echoes, training his eyes on Steve, who has crossed the room to sit on the bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bucky’s firm in his rejection: “no.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“Drive.”

Steve smiles, raising a brow. “You look good in that suit. Did I tell you that before?”

“Didn’t come up.”

“Well, you do.” He grins, waggling his arched brow. “You’ll look better out of it, though.”

Bucky breaks, canines flashing. “That’s dumb.” 

“Is it working?”

He tugs on his tie, loosening the knot. “Yeah.” 

When he takes a step closer, though, Steve shakes his head. Leans back against the wall and raises one socked foot, pressing his toes against the hard muscle of Bucky’s stomach. “Nope.” 

“But—“ 

“Pretty sure there’s a rule that says you’re not allowed to wear so many clothes in my bed.” 

Another dumb line, but it gets Bucky blushing. He does as he's told—takes off his tie, draping it over the back of the folding chair pushed beneath Steve's old drawing desk. The shirt goes next, his usually nimble fingers fumbling with each button as he trades caution for haste. Steve finds it all strangely arousing, from the way he unbuttons his cuffs—muscular forearms—to the way his Adam's apple rises and falls when he swallows and lets his shirt drop to the floor. Leaving his upper half clad in nothing but his undershirt.

And Christ, that _undershirt_. It’s made from some obscenely flimsy cotton, nipples visible beneath the clinging fabric. Steve sighs, shifting his weight and rubbing himself over his jeans. “Leave that on,” he says when Bucky fingers the hem. “I like it.” 

Bucky makes a noise of surprise, then takes hold of his belt. Plain white boxers make an appearance seconds later. Steve’s never found that particular style of underwear sexy before—he’s mostly been a black boxer-briefs sort of guy—but Bucky makes everything look good. Once his pants have been folded and laid atop his shirt and tie, Bucky turns, eyebrow half-cocked. 

Steve feels it, then. The weight of Bucky’s expectations. So he crooks a finger, patting the bed near his thigh. “Come here, handsome,” he says, scooting over a few inches so Bucky can stretch out, the top of his head pressed to the side of Steve’s leg. 

“Hi,” he says once Bucky’s settled, stroking his thumb across those ridiculously full lips before trailing it down his chest to tweak his left nipple, just to see what’ll happen. 

Bucky twitches, mouth opening. Steve can’t help laughing at the look on his face. “You like that?” he asks, and while the question’s rhetorical, he gives Bucky another pinch, just to make sure.

“Hnn,” Bucky moans. 

That's a hell of an affirmative answer. Steve takes the opportunity to change positions, moving to cover Bucky's prone body with his own and closing his mouth over Bucky's cloth-covered nipple to bite down. Bucky goes rigid, leaving Steve with no choice but to continue teasing and tormenting, tongue flicking against the damp fabric. After a while, he switches allegiances to the other side. It turns out that Bucky likes that fine, and by the time Steve pulls away, the cheap fabric is practically translucent, warp and weft hopelessly misshapen. God, he could do this all day. Bucky's, meanwhile, has his face scrunched up with his eyes closed tight, as if he's not allowed to like this quite as much as he obviously does.

“Hey,” Steve says, keeping his head close enough to Bucky’s chest that his warm breath will only add to the pleasant torment. 

Bucky opens his eyes, bottom lip cherry red from being so thoroughly worried beneath his teeth. 

“I asked you a question, before.”

When Bucky responds with a grunt, Steve ups the ante, straddling his waist and looking down at his still-scrunched face. "Bucky," he sing-songs, hands moving to pinch his pecs, squeezing firmly. No response, still, so he tightens his grip. Bucky's mouth falls open in a silent plea, and Steve takes advantage, moving his right hand to slip his thumb past Bucky's parted lips. Bucky bites down, sucking Steve's digit further into his mouth, which Steve rewards by stroking his index fingers against the stubbled skin of his jaw.

“You still with me?” he asks. 

A nod.

“Good. So, about my question…” Using the hand still on Bucky’s chest, he flicks his oh-so-sensitive nipple. “Whether or not you liked this. Because…” Another flick, for kicks. “I _think_ you do, but you won’t _tell_ me, and that hurts my feelings a little—” 

Bucky groans around his finger, the response coming out a muffled, "I do."

“You do what?”

“Like it. When you do that.” 

“That wasn’t so hard.” Sitting back, Steve uses both hands to push up the hem of Bucky’s undershirt, exposing a few inches of skin, eyes traveling down the thick trail of hair that runs from his sternum to below the waistband of his shorts. “Lift up.” 

Bucky lifts. Steve pushes the undershirt up until it's resting below Bucky's elbows, effectively pinning his arms above his head.

“Whoops. Guess you’re stuck,” he teases, as if Bucky couldn’t rip through the cotton in two seconds. 

Glancing at his not-so-bound arms, Bucky smiles. “Guess so.” 

"I must be the luckiest son of a gun alive to get you all laid out so I can do whatever I want with you." Scooting back, he positions himself to feel the press of Bucky's hardening cock against his backside. Excellent—that means everyone's having a good time. "I could leave you like this forever, I think. All day and all night. Feed you and tease you and keep you so I can have you whenever I want you."

“Yes,” Bucky breathes, eyes wide. 

“You like that idea?”

“Yes. It’s…yes. And I like…” he shrugs. “You. All your ideas.” 

“I like you back,” he says, bending to press a kiss to Bucky’s sternum, lingering long enough to feel the hitch of breath beneath the bone. “I like every bit of you.” 

“Every bit of you,” he echoes, heart thudding away in its cage, every beat evident against Steve’s lips. “Like it—” he stops, then tries again. “I like it when you touch me.” 

Steve smiles, sitting up only long enough to strip off his hoodie and t-shirt before leaning down to press their bodies together. “Like that?”

“Yes.” It’s more whine than words, a fidget of epic proportions rolling through his body, heart still racing.

“Easy,” Steve murmurs, keeping himself still until Bucky settles, tension leeching from him, though never going far. Lifting his head, he’s pleased to find Bucky peaceful, a small smile touching his lips. “Hi, Buck.” 

“Hi.”

“Doing alright?” 

“Yes,” he says, and Steve knows he means it. Means everything, really, because there’s no artifice in him.

“I want you in me,” Steve says, putting a name on the desire he’s had since the moment Bucky walked through his front door in that goddamn suit. “If you want to try. You can say no. Just…I would like that. Very much” 

Bucky studies him carefully, and Steve is sure he's about to be rejected—Bucky hasn't tried topping yet, and in a world of new experiences, that's one of the more intimidating options. To his surprise, though, Bucky croaks out a, "yes, please," only seconds later.

There’s no mistaking the half-starved hunger in his eyes. Steve loves that look—loves that he’s deciding what he wants for himself, agreeing not because he feels he has to, but because he’s allowing himself to need things. 

Sitting up, he taps two fingers against Bucky’s navel and nods. “I bought supplies. Boy Scout and all.” 

“You made that joke before,” he says. 

“Any funnier the second time?”

“Not really.”

Steve snorts, leaning over to root around in his stuck-drawered bedside table for the pump-dispenser lube he already owned and condoms he'd bought earlier that week. (Extra-large, purchased on a hope and a prayer.)

“Here,” he says, tossing the stuff onto the bed, then clambering off. This movement draws such a disconsolate sigh from Bucky that Steve starts to laugh. “Whassamatter, you miss me already?”

“Yes.” 

“Too bad. I can’t take my pants off when I’m on top of you.”

“You could try,” he says, hands chasing after him, undershirt coming along for the ride as he catches Steve’s wrists. “Let me do it for you?”

That’s not an offer any sane man would pass up, so Steve steps to the side of the bed, tugging off his undershirt while Bucky turns his attention to his jeans. Once they’re off, Bucky takes some initiative and wraps his right hand around Steve’s already-straining shaft, giving him a couple experimental pumps. 

“Jesus motherfuck,” Steve stammers, toes curling against the hardwood. 

“You _like_ that,” Bucky says solemnly, mirth in those oh-so-blue eyes.

“Smartass,” he mutters, laughing. “Such a—fuck _Bucky—_ quit wasting time and take your shorts off.” 

"Not wasting time…" he protests, even as he releases his hold and strips, newly-freed cock resting heavily against his belly.

Steve can’t resist reaching out to rub his length with the heel of his hand. “So sexy, all worked up for me,” he murmurs, dropping to his knees so he can run his tongue over the pre-come gathering on the head of Bucky’s prick, drawing out a shudder. “It’s gonna feel so good when you fuck me.” 

“Steve—” 

“Right here,” he says, fumbling for the condom and ripping open the foil. “You wanna put this on yourself?”

"No." The statement is declarative, so Steve gets to work. Swipes his tongue across the head of Bucky's dick once more before sliding the condom on. Usually this isn't the sexiest part of a fuck, but Bucky responds beautifully to any positive touch, arching his back and biting down on his lip

“God, Bucky,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on his hipbone before standing. “I like your noises, you know that?”

Bucky takes the compliment, lips moving as he silently repeats the praise. Steve lets him have the moment as he straddles his hips once more. For all that he'd considered a couple different positions—Bucky possesses the biggest dick he's ever had the pleasure of becoming intimately acquainted with, after all—in the end, he's a traditionalist. Plus, it'll be easier on Bucky if Steve does the lion's share of the work. So he reaches for the lube, liberally coating his palm before twisting his arm behind himself to wrap one slick fist around Bucky's latex-covered cock.

Bucky yelps, the calloused fingertips of his right hand settling against Steve’s hip. “Oh… _oh_ ,” he whines. 

“You’re not even _in_ me yet.”

“S’good.” 

"Such eloquence," he teases, leaning down to kiss Bucky's nose before resuming liberal lubrication, which takes some time and includes several more pumps of the bottle. Because yes, Steve's a size queen when he bottoms, but he's not so stupid as to go in wholly unprepared. Bucky, meanwhile, studies him as he preps, eyes Keane-sized and curious.

"What?" Steve asks eventually.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m…” he chuffs out a breath. “What do you think I’m doing?”

It’s meant to be sarcastic, but Bucky looks concerned. “I’m not gonna hurt you, am I.” 

"Maybe a little," he replies, because he actually likes the discomfort of a rougher entry, pain and pleasure mingling to ping happy places in his brain.

Bucky frowns. “Steve—“ 

“Buck. I’m not gonna do anything I don’t like, alright? I promise you that.”

“…alright.”

"Thank you. Don't worry about it, okay? Just…enjoy it." Reaching back, he finds Bucky's prick again, luxuriating in the feeling of it gliding smoothly between his cheeks. The anticipation of what's to come. Bucky groans, eyes closing, and jaw tipping toward the ceiling. Steve smirks, pausing to bend and kiss the ridiculous cleft in his ridiculous chin. "You ready?"

Bucky nods. Steve doesn’t hesitate, lining things up and guiding himself back onto Bucky’s shaft. His body fights the intrusion at first, but he’s a pro, relaxing with practiced breathing. Nearly, nearly, _nearly,_ and then, suddenly, the head of Bucky’s cock slips past his rim, the initial spark of pain mingling with equal parts pleasure at being filled.

“Ohhfuck,” he breathes. 

“Ah-hah…” Bucky manages eloquently, fingers flexing against Steve’s hip. 

“That good, huh?” he grins, retaining his smart mouth even as Bucky’s cock feels like it’s gonna him in two. Slowly— _endlessly—_ he works himself back, inch by glorious inch. "Feels—" he groans, tightening and releasing as he opens to the stretch. "Feels good for me, too, Buck. Promise."

That's true, though "good" doesn't entirely cover the feeling of being taken apart and put back together again in accommodating a lover. Sharp pains giving way to dull aches giving way to warmth as their bodies are brought flush together, joining two halves of the same whole.

“There it is,” Steve hisses, feeling the press of Bucky’s thighs against his ass, body adjusting to the girth. 

For his part, Bucky’s hardly moving. Hardly breathing. Steve can see the effort such restraint is taking, sweat beading on his brow as he holds himself immaculately still. Once more afraid of taking what he wants. 

Steve, benevolent, gives it to him anyway, rolling his hips up, then sinking back down. 

“You don’t have to be careful,” he murmurs, hands pressed to Bucky’s chest, anchoring himself in place as he starts to ride him. “You can fuck me.”

“Fuck _me_ ,” Bucky whimpers in return. 

Steve wouldn't deny that request for the world, so he smiles, kissing him once, deeply, before sitting back and picking up the pace. Within a minute, he's panting, perspiration rolling down his forehead as his muscles tremble. He'll regret the exertion in the morning, but right now, he doesn't care about the inevitable soreness. Doesn't care about anything beyond Bucky's enjoyment, even at the expense of his own. Which isn't to say he's not having fun—his cock is _keenly_ invested—but he’s not thinking much about it until, suddenly, Bucky moves his right hand from Steve’s hip to the lube, pumping a fistful and going for Steve’s prick. _Christ_ , yes, that’s good. It’s all so fucking good—the burn and the glide and the sheer filthiness of fucking.

"You gonna come in me, Buck?" he pants, indulging in a silly whim of fantasy as if Bucky's not wearing a condom. "Wanna feel you fill me up."

It’s nonsense, but Bucky nods, eyes rolling back in his head. “Fill you up,” he agrees. 

“So good for me,” he murmurs.

“For you—” he moans, and that’s when something miraculous happens. That’s the moment when control _shifts_ , before being lost entirely. The moment when Bucky's thighs draw up, and his hips begin to move, snapping up in a steady rhythm as his body seeks release. It's all Steve can do to hold on, to meet Bucky's thrusts as he is thoroughly fucked. Until, at last, Bucky comes with a shout, his hand falling from Steve's cock, fingers fisting the sheets instead. Pulsing in time with his hips as he rides his orgasm to its inevitable end.

“Oh, you’re so good,” Steve murmurs, tensing up in the hopes of extending Bucky’s pleasure for as long as he’s able. “I can feel you—feel every inch of you—” 

Bucky’s shivering. No, more than that, he’s _quaking_. Vibrating like he might come right out of his skin. "Sorry, sorry, sorry…" he pants, the apology coming as quickly as breathing. Always sorry when he's finished, Steve's finding.

“Sweetheart,” he says, the endearment feeling both strange and correct as it passes his lips. “What on earth could you possibly be you sorry for?”

“Because I…you didn’t—” He shrugs, cheeks flushed red as he glances down. 

Ah. “Oh. Well, no, I didn’t. But—” Looking around for inspiration, he spots Bucky’s discarded undershirt, still wet with saliva. “Just use this.” 

Bucky stares at the shirt, confused, until Steve takes his hand and guides it to his still-flushed cock. It’s not the most elegant jizz-rag in the world, but Steve’s had worse. Plus, considering that Bucky’s the one wielding it, Steve’s orgasm hits him hard soon after. He shoots into the shirt, hole spasming around Bucky’s still-sensitive, softening prick, drawing another moan and twitch as Steve collapses on top of him. Grinning, he takes the soiled shirt and tosses it to the floor before pressing a couple kisses to Bucky’s reddened chest. “Fuck.” 

Bucky laughs low, arms wrapping around Steve with clutching fierceness. But then, to Steve’s dismay, he shifts his hips, beginning to slip out. Which is the opposite of a good idea, Steve’s pretty sure. 

“Hey,” he protests, tightening up as best he can, though that’s easier said than done in his current state. “Quit.”

“But—“ 

“I like it when you’re in me,” he replies. Maybe that makes him a kinky weirdo, but shit, if he can’t be a kinky weirdo with his boyfriend, then what’s the point of having one? “Just stay there a while, huh?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, and there’s no judgment in his tone.

They fall asleep that way, which Steve knows is a mistake even as he drifts off. Forty minutes later, when the sound of a siren rouses them from their nap, they are a sticky, stuck-together mess. 

“We gotta quit doing this,” Steve comments, as Bucky laughs. “Seriously. I’m gonna invest in some towels.”

“Me, too,” he agrees, then scratches his belly with a yawn. “I’m hungry.” 

“Shower, then leftovers,” Steve declares. 

They shower, eat cold chicken sandwiches, and strip the sheets, re-making the bed with Steve’s extra set before crawling beneath the covers to share a six-pack and talk about nothing until the first hints of dawn creep across the floor. 

Later, leaning out the window, watching Bucky disappear around the corner in the early morning light, Steve decides that he might, maybe, possibly be considering falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Everything's going so well--it'd be a shame if the plot showed up again, right? 
> 
> Anyway, tune in next week for the plot.


	11. Rooftop Interlude Number Two

This time, the rooftop is in D.C. 

Closer to home, if that’s what he can call it. Seems like he might be, lately.

Ain’t that the goddamndest thing?

Three days into the stakeout, bored beyond measure, he sits with his back pressed to a brick wall. Tired of the waiting. Tired of the chase. Tired of the job.

This is new. The boredom. The feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else. It makes him fidget. Forget. Lose sight of the mission. 

Bad impulses, given his profession.

Easier to fuck up when there’s something to live for.

Home, if he lets himself believe it. Not the place he lives, but _home_ , with its shock of blond hair and mulish, contrary mouth. A warm bed and a roast chicken atop a dining room table he knows he can fix. A mother, a laugh, a sympathetic ear.

Before Steve, Bucky needed nothing. Now, he believes that he’ll _become_ nothing if he loses that tenuous strand which links him to this perfectly mundane life.

Steve is what he sees in his mind’s eye. The snap that pulls him into focus. 

For years, he knew that there was no love left in him.

Now, there is this. Maybe this.

This person who sees his lapses and his losses and treats him like a person. More than a person, _his_ person. Steve teases and pokes, bristles and buffets. Doesn't cosset. Doesn't coax. Because Bucky is old and worn thin, but not worn out. He understands that more and more every time Steve goads him into giving back as good as he gets. Those occasions when the preening, cocky kid he was comes into focus while the ghost and the soldier fade.

He shifts against the unyielding brick.

Harder, now that he has known softness.

A shift of the wind, and she's there. It's been months since he last saw her, and he'd been stupid in thinking she might give up her dogged pursuit. A Widow is a Widow.

“At ease, James,” she greets.

Opening his eyes, Bucky takes in the sleek leather of her uniform, the stun baton handles sticking out from behind her back, the dark kohl around her eyes, and the smirk on her lips. "Natasha."

“Your target’s been compromised.” She smiles, pleased when he frowns, his expression giving away the fact that this is new information.

“Thanks to you?” 

“Yes,” she replies, sitting down cross-legged in front of him. “Aren’t you happy? You can go home.”

Bucky’s heartbeat speeds at the word, but he betrays nothing further. After all, compromised can mean a few different things. “Is he dead?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then my job’s not done.”

She clicks her tongue, mock-dismayed as she leans forward, all those wiles gone to waste. “Don’t you trust me?”

“A fool’s errand.”

“But you trust the people you’re working for?”

“Not as such.” He knows very little about those people, save for the fact that they’re interested in ridding the world of HYDRA, too, and that his target was a big, Nazi fish. 

“You know this is bigger than your personal vendetta, James.” 

Bucky grunts; his vendetta is more than enough. He’s not there to save the world, only to visit vengeance on those who deserve it for the atrocities they’ve committed. 

Natasha smiles, dipping her head to whisper, “and what about Steve?”

Bucky's vision goes red. He snarls, and she has him. Invoking Steve's name—a name that isn't hers—has made him weak, vulnerable, and _small_. He lunges, but she’s already on her feet, twisting his left arm behind his back, pressing the tip of her bite to his exposed throat. 

“Easy now, soldier,” she says. He can hear the hum of electricity as he swallows, the sound frightening him terribly. She won’t kill him, but she might take him, and he can’t— _can’t_ —go away. Not again. Not now. The idea of some latent programming kicking in, something she knows that he doesn't that will make him pliant and slow. Something Shuri never found. Forcing him to submit. To her. To SHIELD. To anyone but Steve.

That terrifies him more now than it ever has before. 

Her voice is soothing as if to calm the bristling beast. "I don't want to hurt you, James."

“Don’t fucking say his name,” he spits, because it’s not fair that she should know Steve at all.

“You think you’re living this life in secret?” she asks, disbelief coloring her tone. Not mocking, but pitying. “You can’t be so stupid as to think we don’t have eyes on you.”

“Not Steve. He’s not part—” 

“Steven Grant Rogers,” she recites. “Born on the fourth of July. Father, Joseph. Deceased. Mother, Sarah, still _very_ much alive. Works at—” 

“Fuck you,” he grunts.

Her grip tightens, baton pressing into the thin skin that covers his throat. “I don’t deal in threats. Think of it as a warning.” 

“You wouldn’t—” 

“You’re right, _we_ wouldn’t. SHIELD prefers not to touch civilians any more than necessary. Besides, if we bring you in, we want you willing.”

Debatable—he has no doubt she'd take him down if he ever posed a danger—but he is in no position to argue. Because with this, she has broken him. He ought to be calculating a thousand ways to break free, but all he thinks of are a thousand ways she and her people could kill Steve if they wanted to. Threats or no threats.

“Then what’s the fucking point?” he rasps, defeated.

Natasha releases her hold, giving him a knock to the temple, a den mother disciplining a recalcitrant pup. “I think you already know. SHIELD isn’t the only outfit with an interest in your comings and goings, James. You’d do well to remember that.” 

Bucky sits down hard, stripped of his defenses. She’s not wrong—some part of him has always known that there’s no such thing as a safe harbor for someone like him. 

"HYDRA's weakened, yes," she continues, referring to the incident, several years prior, in which they'd both played a part. "We lopped off a few heads, but they're not—"

“You think I’m not working on it?”

“This isn’t a war you have to fight on your own. Maybe whoever else is tracking you isn’t that good. Or maybe they are, and they’re biding their time.” She smiles with her fox-teeth, shouldering her weapons. “Catching the Winter Soldier off his guard. Using some very personal leverage against him. Now _there’s_ a rare opportunity for some disgraced snake to prove themself to their superiors.” 

“Let them try,” he snarls. 

“SHIELD could protect Steve,” she says, and he sees the trap she’s laying. The ask that’s coming. “His mother, too. Comprehensive security for partners and families is part of the package, if you come and work for us.”

“Thought this wasn’t a threat.” 

"It's not." She pauses, mouth turning up at the corners. "Call it coercion."

“No.”

“No?”

"I'll…" What will he do? Give Steve up? Protect him? Both? Neither? The former is more foolproof—keeps him safer. Keeps him alive long enough for Bucky to get out ahead of the assholes keeping tabs on them. Only maybe there's always going to be another set of goons lying in wait. "I can take care of us."

“Here’s some rope,” she says drily. “I’ll let you figure out the noose.”

He manages something insulting in Russian before she’s gone, disappearing over the side of the building as swiftly as she’d arrived. God knows where she keeps her grappling hooks. 

There is nothing left to do but wait. Watch. Worry until the call that pulls him from the chase comes through. This week’s master putting him on the chain until the next time an attack dog is needed. 

Freedom—ha. He’s been naive to believe in anything like _freedom_. 

He will always be on that goddamn leash. 

Twin tendrils of guilt and sorrow creep up his spine, and he can see his future and his past laid out clearly. The same story told twice: for seventy years he's been a ghost and he'll be a ghost again.

He was a fool to think he’d found a home where he could lay his burdens down at last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot! Sorry! Thank you for your lovely, thoughtful comments, and I'll see you next week to catch up with Steve.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, you know that comic book violence I warned for in the tags? It starts in this chapter. Nothing too gory or graphic, but if you'd rather skip, I'll provide a brief summary in the endnotes.

It’s been two weeks since Steve last heard from Bucky.

Which isn’t unusual on its surface. Bucky’s gone on more than a couple trips since they became official. 

But. 

_But_.

Steve's not sure, but he thinks people in serious relationships probably call each other when one is out of town. Because when you're smitten, two weeks starts feeling like an eternity. And make no mistake: he is smitten. Since dinner with his mother, they've hardly gone a couple days without seeing one another, so to go from that to cold turkey? Well, it stinks for a couple of reasons. One being Steve's libido, and the other being that he _knows_ where Bucky is (being as Bucky had told him before leaving, then looked sort of squirrely about having done so), and that place sure as shit ain’t the moon. It’s Washington D.C., which is just a hop, skip, and a jump down the Amtrak line. And yet, Bucky’s not responding to texts. Or phone calls. Or carrier pigeons, Steve assumes. 

He's not sure if he's more angry or horny, though he can't do anything about either.

So he goes to work. Goes home. Eats. Hangs out with Lo. Kisses his ma in the morning and watches TV with her at night. Rinses and repeats. All the while ignoring the pernicious voice inside his head that runs on a constant loop, asking _where-oh-where_ has Bucky gone?

It’s the sort of thought that might make a less secure guy start worrying. A guy like that might think he’d done something wrong, in fact. Fucked up. Hurt Bucky—confused or scared him or Christ knows what else. But he’d seemed okay before he left, and Steve’s not that insecure guy. But if he _was_ that guy, he might also be thinking of a more disconcerting alternative: Bucky’s just bored with him. But that doesn’t seem like Bucky either—he’s not the type to ghost a fella. That shit’s reserved for third date assholes or third-rate sex. 

What they’d been building together was neither. 

The final option that less secure guy might think on is that something terrible has happened to Bucky in the line of duty. Something that's preventing his reaching out. Like whatever his mysterious mafia drug dealing hitman job is has gotten him hurt.

Or killed. 

No. Not killed. 

Because if Bucky _was_ dead, how would Steve ever know? Sure, he has Bucky's phone number, but right now, that's about as useful as a ballsack on his forehead. And it's not like he has a key to Bucky's grey box of an apartment—shit, for all he knows, Bucky pays cash under the table for that. Plus, he's never heard him talk about family or friends in the present tense, nor would he know where to start looking. Honestly, the only things Steve _actually_ knows for sure about him are that he has a gym membership and a bank account. Both of which could have been set up under false pretenses. 

Because who the hell is Bucky, really? Jacob Thompson’s starting to sound a lot more like John Smith—anonymous enough that there are five million of them on Facebook—and how, precisely, _does_ one get Bucky out of either of those names? Doesn’t add up. Does nothing to quell Steve’s anxious thoughts, which begin carrying him to bed at night and waking him up in the morning. 

On the sixteenth day of Bucky’s absence, Steve rises as usual. Brushes his teeth. Combs his hair. Walks to work, where he sits behind the counter and spins in his squeaky chair. He can’t focus. Texts Bucky instead—the daily ritual of a smiley face and a _hi, hope you’re good!_

No response. Cool. 

Steve sighs. Turns his phone over on the desk. If he can’t see it, he can’t be disappointed. 

Ten minutes later, he turns it face up. Stares it down in a battle of wills until, at long last, a text appears. He grabs at it, only to find the message is from Lorraine, who wants to know if he’s able to grab lunch. He replies in the affirmative, though his appetite has been shit thanks to the gnawing nerves roiling in his gut. 

Lorraine says she'll be there at noon, but she arrives at five after, looking like she's come straight from the gym. Steve's cashing Mrs. Washington's rent checks when she walks in, and he acknowledges her with a nod and a half-smile before getting back to work. His manager Mia—who generally keeps her office door open and knows Lorraine on sight—looks up and smiles, ready to take over for Steve while he's on his break.

Just the four of them. Later, he’ll think how glad he was that things were quiet.

“Got any big plans today?” he asks Mrs. Washington as the ancient printer dithers over her receipt. 

“A trip to the market,” she replies. “Cauliflower’s on sale.” 

“Oh yeah?” he says, only half paying attention as the machine finally spits out the receipt. 

“Might roast it,” she continues as Steve stamps the paper. Behind her, the door chime dings, indicating a new customer. 

Everything starts moving in slow motion after that.

Lorraine gasps. A sharp hitch followed by a mewling whimper. 

Steve looks up, and suddenly he’s in a movie. A heist. 

Three figures in black come through the door, every inch of them stereotypical bank robbers. Masks. Bags. Guns.

The first one to come in levels one of those guns at Lorraine's head, and all Steve can think is _no, this isn’t real_ because the guns are too shiny. Toys. Gotta be toys.

The second robber slides a metal bar through the handles of the lobby doors, no doubt having already secured the main entrance. 

The third robber drops his long, thin canvas bag onto the ground near the table that holds the deposit slips. 

_There’ll be more guns in there_ , Steve thinks, and he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. 

All of this happens in the time it takes for Mrs. Washington to turn around. Incredible how quickly fear takes hold—how his legs have turned to jelly and his fingers have begun to shake.

His fingers. Which are beneath the desk. Still holding Mrs. Washington’s stamped receipt. Inches away from the silent alarm. 

Steve presses the button a millisecond before the man with the handgun shouts, “put your god damn hands _up_.” 

“Oh, my Lord,” says Mrs. Washington, hands already halfway to the sky. Steve’s surprised to find that his own hands are rising, body disconnected from brain as some long-dormant survival instinct kicks in. 

“You,” says Canvas Bag, turning the big gun he’s retrieved toward Mia’s office. “Get out here.” 

Mia is quick to obey, stepping out with her hands up. She’s the one they want, Steve’s sure. The one with the ability to get into the safe. The person in charge of this sad little credit union that doesn’t even have bulletproof glass guarding the counters. It’s easier than robbing a fucking Bank of America, he supposes. 

Canvas motions toward the far wall, tossing his head in case they might miss his intent. “Move. All of you. Line up, hands up.”

Sure now that they're about to be shot execution-style, Steve's legs still propel him forward. Quivering as he makes his way out from behind the counter, joining his compatriots against the wall. Canvas tells them to sit, so they sit. Lorraine, Steve, Mrs. Washington, and Mia. Oh, fuck, he doesn't want to die today. Doesn't want to die like his father with a bullet in his belly.

He can’t leave his mother. Can’t leave Bucky. Can’t—

"So here's what's gonna happen," Canvas says. "You—" He levels the big gun at Mia. "Are gonna take my friend here—" He indicates the third man, who Steve thinks of as Big and Scary because he is bigger and scarier than his friends, which is saying something. "And load some cash into the bags. Don't think you can get cute with dye packs, either."

“Sure,” Mia says with remarkably flat affect, clambering to her feet. “Nothing funny. You got it.”

“Watch she doesn’t trip an alarm,” says Handgun. 

Fuck. The alarm. Steve is suddenly petrified that the cops will arrive, sirens blaring, and these assholes will pin it on Mia. She'll get her head blown off because Steve didn't take time to think. Just acted. If he'd left well enough alone, they'd probably rob the place and leave. Now he may have put them in a hostage situation.

"There are cameras," he blurts, because while he doesn't believe that he's brave, he's noble enough to try and save her. "Offsite security…" Neither of those things is true—the cameras aren't connected to anything but the recording system in the back room—but it might deflect blame if cops do show up.

Canvas’ muddy brown eyes narrow behind his mask, and he points his gun at Steve, who tries not to flinch. “Well shit, boys,” he drawls, and Steve thinks he hears a southern accent. “Ol’ Steve here thinks we weren’t smart enough to disable the cameras.” 

Fuck. Also: how the hell does this dick know his name?

“It _is_ Steve, right?” Canvas says, stepping closer. “Steven Grant Rogers. Single mama named Sarah, Brooklyn born and raised. _Intimately_ acquainted with one James Barnes. Or, well, I guess he’s calling himself _Bucky_ again these days.” 

Steve's heart stops, and his mouth goes dry. It occurs to him that these are not merely bank robbers. That maybe it's not all fun and games having a boyfriend who is a mafia pimp drug dealing soldier. Because despite Bucky's blow-offs and Steve's feigned disinterest, he has been spending a lot of time with a man he doesn't know much about. A man who doesn't disclose any information about himself. And sure, Steve has had his suspicions, but mostly he's compartmentalized. Convinced himself that Bucky works for the government and that he's not at liberty to share much about that work.

Fuck, he should have asked more questions. Now, it’s all he can do to lick his lips, summoning up every bit of gumption he possesses to respond with a measured, “uh, who?”

“Oh, now that’s cute,” says Canvas. “We know he’s your boyfriend, so don’t bullshit a bullshitter, huh?” 

Big and Scary grunts, holding up Steve’s phone, which he’d left face-up on the counter. “This yours?” 

“Yes,” Steve replies, because what’s the point in lying? Bucky’s picture is on his goddamn lock screen.

Scary tosses the phone to Handgun, who catches it without missing a beat, only to be brought up short by the passcode. “Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s locked.”

“You could cut off his thumb,” says Scary, looking absolutely gleeful at the prospect.

“The fuck are we gonna do that for?” Handgun replies. “It ain’t a fingerprint sensor, you dumb fuck.”

Thank God for his shitty old phone.

“Do it anyway—might be funny?” Scary replies. This leads Steve to the conclusion that Scary is the sociopath of the group.

Handgun rolls his eyes, dismissing the suggestion before taking two big, booted steps and dropping the phone in Steve’s lap. “Call your boyfriend, _Steve_.” 

There is a certain clearheadedness in terror. Years of bullies and bruising have given him the ability to pause. Take a breath. Think about leverage—their needs versus his own. Jutting out his chin, he shrugs. “No, thanks.” 

Handgun sneers. Leans in and presses the barrel of his gun to Steve’s forehead. Beside him, Lorraine moans, but all Steve can focus on is how _cold_ the metal feels. It’ll heat up if Handgun fires, though. Warming through and through when the bullet tears through bone and brain to spatter what was good, bad, and in-between about Steve Rogers on the wall of the job where he was just passing time. 

He is shaking apart at the seams. But he _did_ trip the alarm. Meaning that cops might already be silently surrounding the building. All he needs is time, and time is something he can buy. Maybe by pissing these guys off—stalling a little—the situation will evolve. Get better. Maybe the silent prayer Mrs. Washington is offering up will be answered. Maybe Lorraine can stop crying. Maybe Mia can—

Handgun turns the gun on Lorraine. “Call him, or I’ll shoot her.”

Fuck. Fuck _fuck_ fuck fuckity— “If you shoot her,” he says, voice cracking as he buries his fear deep, finding a wellspring of bravery while he’s there. “Then I _definitely_ won’t call him. I’ll kill myself first.” 

Handgun snarls. Hits him with the butt of the gun, knocking his head to the side so hard that he sees white spots and grey spots, and oh, Jesus, no fight in his life has prepared him for this. Never before has he truly been walloped so hard that his bones rattle, and his brain knocks around his skull.

Lorraine shrieks. Steve recovers enough that he can see Canvas jamming his gun in her face, and he thinks _I’m living in hell_ before gasping out a last-ditch, "alright, alright, I'll fucking call him! But you gotta let them go before I do."

Because it's him they want—he's the bait—their ticket to Bucky, who is the prize. Steve is worth no more than a phone call, but maybe he can save his friends on his way to the end of the line.

That’s something, at least.

Handgun looks as thoughtful as a man in a mask can look. Canvas, however, only presses his gun harder against Lorraine’s tear-stained cheek. “No fuckin’ way we’re giving them up. They’ll call someone the minute they’re outta here. Two minutes, we got a SWAT…” 

“Fuck your SWAT,” Handgun snorts. “You think the team ain’t got the firepower for SWAT?”

“The _team_ ain’t gonna extract us if it’s not clean.”

“Buddy, if we get the soldier, they’ll drop a fucking nuke for us,” Handgun shoots back.

The _Soldier_. Bucky. Steve had assumed his military service was former, but maybe not. He could be black-ops. Special forces? A guy who helps oust one regime and install another without the world ever being the wiser.

That would explain why these idiots are so pissed off, but _none_ of this makes sense. If they want Bucky, why go through Steve? Fuck. He's missing something important. Doesn't matter. That's a later problem if he's lucky enough to have a later. All that matters now is getting Mrs. Washington, Lorraine, and Mia out of harm's way.

Which means Steve needs to be smarter than his aching head and shaking body want to allow.

Here’s what he knows: they already think he’s a pushover because of his capitulation on the phone call. They don’t want attention. They don’t want SWAT. No cameras. No alarms. No dye packs. No cutesy maneuvers. 

They only want Bucky.

Which means that Steve has already fucked them over, and they don’t even know it. 

So he decides to share.

“Aw geez, fellas, did you _not_ want the cops to show up?" he asks, genial despite the warm soup that is his addled, aching head. "Oops, yeah, I mighta tripped the alarm already, you dumbshits."

Handgun and Canvas exchange a glance, and Steve knows he has a temporary hold on the upper hand, which he’s damn well going to use to his advantage. Get his friends out. After that, when they want him to hold up his end of the bargain and call Bucky? He’ll say no again.

Probably he’ll die, but so what? At least he’ll go out protecting someone he loves.

Because he’s beginning to understand that these men have been watching him. That they believe they _know_ him. That because he’s small, he must be meek. That he’s the type of man who’ll cower at the sight of their big guns, betraying his boyfriend to save his own skin. 

They’re wrong. He’s the type of man who can think on his feet. Keep dancing. Tuck his elbows without telegraphing his punches. 

Handgun nods to Canvas, both of them stepping back from the foursome. Canvas goes to the phone on Mia’s desk, picking it up and dialing. 

As it happens, when you’re one of the dicks holding four people hostage in the local credit union, it’s pretty simple to get hold of someone important. Oh, and yes, there are cops outside, and yes, they’d very much like the release of at least a few of those hostages. 

The call lasts about fifteen minutes, all told, and toward the end, there's a lot of yelling, with Canvas reiterating time and again that no, he has no demands, and no, he won't send out all four, and yes, if they attempt to take the building, they will fucking terminate the fourth.

(Privately, Steve thinks that they’ll be terminating the fourth no matter what happens, but he’s in no position to share.)

Eventually, Canvas talks his way out of his ass, hanging up the phone and returning to the lobby, pointing his gun at the women. "You three," he says. "Stand up."

Lorraine looks at Steve, eyes brimming with fresh tears. “Steve, no…” 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a smile onto his face. “I’ll be alright.”

“Please don’t be brave,” she says, shaking her head and squeezing his hand. “ _Please_ , Steve. Just give them what they want.” 

“No more talking,” Canvas says sharply. “Up. Right now.” 

Scary and Handgun march Mia, Lorraine, and Mrs. Washington to the door, hands laced behind their heads. Steve wants to call after them—to tell Lorraine he loves her, to tell Mia he’s sorry, to tell Mrs. Washington he’ll miss her—but Canvas sees him opening his mouth and shuts him up with a boot to the stomach. Steve gasps, doubling over in a red fog of terror containing every horrible gasping memory of his childhood asthma attacks. By the time he can draw a full breath, his friends are gone.

“Call your boyfriend,” Handgun says the moment Steve rights himself.

“Fuck you,” he wheezes.

“Goddamn kid, and here I thought I wasn’t going to have any fun,” Scary grins, pulling out a knife from a sheath on his hip. 

“Do it,” Steve grits.

“My pleasure,” Scary says, then hauls him to his feet.

It starts with threats. To Steve’s fingers. Toes. Ears. Eyes. Manhood. That’s not so bad—he can keep saying no through all of that. Probably because threats don’t come with pain, and pain is what he’s afraid of. Dying would suck, but at least it would be over fast. Pain, though? He’s not sure how much of that he can handle. 

So when Scary grows tired of taunts and slams Steve’s hand down on the deposit table? Steve quakes. Instinctively tries to pull back, which just makes Scary laugh and press the knife to his arm, drawing a long, thin line from his elbow to his wrist, blood bubbling to the surface. “Now,” Scary says. “Which finger first? Maybe the middle one—very useful.” 

“Fuck _you_ ," Steve says again, but then the blade cuts through the skin above his knuckle, and the shock of it causes him to lose control of his bladder. This temporarily saves his finger, as Handgun notices the wet patch on his pants and starts to laugh, meaning that Scary steps away mid-cut and sees it, too.

“Fucking _gross—”_ Scary mutters, face twisting in disgust.

"Oh, grow up," snaps Handgun, which doesn't make sense, but none of this makes sense, so Steve smiles even though Handgun is coming closer. Grabbing him by the scruff and slamming his head against the table. Steve's vision goes blurry again, but it's still easy enough to see the phone Handgun places next to him before leaning close, stale breath hot in his ear. "Knock off the goddamn drama."

“No,” he repeats. Sweeps his hand to knock the phone from the table, praying that it breaks. Shatters so there is nothing left for them to do but kill him rather than taking him apart. 

“ _Fuck_ me," Handgun says, hauling him up. Holding him by the collar and punching him once. Twice. Three times. Blood and snot and spit covering Steve’s face as Handgun follows the punches up with a knee to the groin, and oh, yeah, his nuts reside in his throat now. 

Doubling over in agony, he sees the phone, which landed in the piss but doesn't appear to be broken. Fuck.

“Go ahead, shoot his dick off,” Handgun snarls, practically throwing him at Scary. “See if he calls then.”

Steve, who is made of nothing but bile and misery now, rolls his eyes. “Like he could even get close to the building, you fucking moron, there’s cops all over the—” 

Handgun’s face darkens, and he rears back. Steve instinctively dodges the punch, which means the blow hits Scary’s chest instead.

“Ow!” Scary yelps. “You fucking—”

They’re morons. Panicking morons. Steve can work with panicking morons. “What were you thinking would happen?” he rambles, twisting in Scary’s grip, blinking to clear his double vision. “That he’s gonna stroll in, let you tie him up, then walk back out? Jesus, you’re the worst criminals I ever heard of. Bucky’s not even in the _state_. He’s on a trip, and—”

"Oh no, he ain't," replies Canvas, stepping forward and using his gun as a baton, swinging wide to take Steve out at the knee.

The blow hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before. He goes down hard, landing on the wet floor with a miserable howl. 

“Don’t fuckin’ hit him, _shoot_ him,” Handgun screams, kicking Steve in the chest and forcing him onto his back. 

Scary advances. Steve drops his head to the ground and waits for the shot. 

Above him, a ceiling tile shifts. He’s the only one who sees it.

A smoking silver canister falls to the floor. 

A masked figure follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'm only slightly sorry for the cliffhanger. Who could that masked person be? See you next week! 
> 
> Also, if you skipped the violence: Steve is working when bank robbers show up at his branch. Turns out, they're not actually bank robbers, but Bucky-seekers. They try to force Steve to contact Bucky, Steve refuses. Violence ensues. Eventually, a ~mysterious~ person arrives to save(?) him, and we end on a cliffhanger.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of that comic book violence here - if you want to skip, jump down to the first horizontal line break and read on from there. I'll provide a summary in the end notes.

The concept of an out-of-body experience never made sense to Steve before. But now? He gets it now. Gets the surreal. The wrong. The way you can be there but not there.

He is having an out-of-body experience.

Because as the man dressed in black drops to the floor, dispersing the smoke, Steve feels like he’s watching from a distance. From the ceiling. From a thousand miles overhead. From a better day where none of this is happening to him. That would be good, he thinks. To be living in another day. Time is doing that thing again—that thing where it is both endless and immediate, trapping him in a Sisyphean nightmare of living and reliving.

The man lands two feet from Canvas. He is wearing a mask that’s more of a muzzle, with weapons strapped to every inch of his body, though it is hard to tell precisely what he’s sporting with smoke filling the room. Blinding Steve and making him cough. Forcing him to close his eyes.

He hears something crack.

He opens his eyes. Squints. Sees Canvas crumple.

Something is very off with Canvas. His head is facing the wrong way around, and he is looking at Steve with dull, blue eyes.

Dead eyes.

Very _very_ off, indeed.

Steve has no great love for Canvas, but he’s never seen someone die before.

Someone grabs his collar. Yanks him back. Maybe he yelps, but it's hard to say when he's living so far outside of himself. Twisting, he finds Scary holding him, and Scary looks _scared_ —heavy breath rasping through his balaclava.

“What the fuck did you _do_?” he snarls in Steve’s ear.

Do? How could Steve have done…he hadn’t even…

Scary lets go of his collar.

No. That’s not precisely correct. Scary is _forced_ to let go of his collar because Scary has a knife embedded in his left eye socket. Neurological, physiological, all functions disabled.

Not dead, though. The knife has wounded him, but it hasn’t killed him, and then—oh!—a whipcrack gunshot and for one fleeting, panicked second Steve believes he’s the one who’s been shot. Whose blood will soon be coating the linoleum.

But it’s not his blood.

It’s Scary’s.

Blood from the knee, which has been shattered by a bullet that was never meant for Steve.

Scary blinks, stupid and slow, the knife twitching in its socket. Steve's stomach lurches as Scary falls. Hits the ground with a grin, and maybe he'll die there, or maybe he won't, but he's not coming after Steve anymore.

Ten seconds have passed in the real world; ten years in the stiracchiando time in which he now lives.

Handgun advances on the man in black, but the man is looking at Steve. Doesn’t see Handgun coming.

Steve sees now that the man is Bucky. Has subconsciously known it was Bucky since the first time the fluorescent lights winked off the obsidian metal of his arm.

Bucky the soldier. Bucky the hitman. Bucky the terror. Bucky the hero.

Bucky, who is not paying attention to the man behind him because he is so focused on the one he’s come to save.

Steve’s shouted warning comes too late, and a bullet buries itself in the meat of Bucky’s right tricep. Steve hollers as though he’s the one who’s been shot.

Bucky merely grunts. His arm goes limp at his side, and all Steve can think is _why didn’t Handgun shoot him in the head_? A logical query, considering that Bucky’s lethal and angry.

Logic dictates the answer, too: they need Bucky alive. That was what they’d said before. Disabled, not dead. So the shot in the arm is meant to what? Warn him? Scare him?

“Солдат,” Handgun barks in a language Steve thinks might be Russian.

Bucky stiffens. Straightens. Turns. “No,” he says, voice muffled and raw behind the mask, yet unmistakable to Steve, who has heard it whispering to him in the dark.

“Желание.” Handgun attempts a different command, and that is what they are, barked out with military precision.

Bucky growls, lowers his head, and charges.

It shouldn’t be a fair fight—Bucky is bigger, stronger, scarier—but it _is_. Unfair, even. Whatever those commands mean, they’ve set Bucky on his heels. He’s taking hit after hit while he grapples for the gun. A wounded pup, snarling and spitting, not fighting smart, clean, or careful.

He’s not dancing.

But Steve? Steve can dance a little. Steve can take on a guy twice his size because Bucky showed him how.

So he waits. Watches. Finds his opportunity then rushes forward to roll Handgun right the fuck up. One-two-three—guts, chest, jaw—packing no more than the element of surprise. That turns out to be enough. His appearance catches Handgun off guard and gives Bucky the time he needs to throw the knockout punch.

Steve hears the crack of Handgun's mandible and thinks Bucky probably could have punched his head all the way off if he'd wanted to. As it happens, Bucky's just warming up. He follows Handgun to the ground, straddling him and starting to hit, and hit, and hit until his fists are a blur, and there's more gore than Steve can handle.

So he takes one step back, then another. His feet slip in a puddle of Scary's still-warm blood, and he bites his tongue when he lands on his ass.

Everything gets a little hazy after that, red stars exploding in his vision.

It would be easier, he thinks, if he were to go to sleep for a little while.

The last thing he sees before his eyes close is Bucky’s bloodstained mask coming into view.

* * *

The smell of city air rouses him. Daylight glints off the metal dumpster in the mews behind the building, and he is being held up by a strong arm, dragged toward a nondescript black car that looks sleek, expensive, and official.

A woman is speaking beside him. She has been talking for some time, but his addled brain has just decided to register words rather than white noise.

“…cordoned off the area. It’s SHIELD’s jurisdiction now.”

“I mighta left one of ‘em alive,” says the muffled voice attached to the arm holding Steve up. Bucky’s voice.

“Generous of you,” comes her affectless reply. “Your buddy’s awake.”

“He is?” Bucky shakes him none-too-gently. Fucking _ouch_. God, he’s been pulverized so many places it would be easier to name the bits of him that aren’t in agony. Lifting his head, Steve blinks through bleary eyes and finds Bucky’s face, still muzzled.

“Hi,” he says, head spinning. “I’m gonna puke.”

Which is all the warning Bucky gets before Steve follows through, vomiting what’s left of his breakfast onto the pavement.

“All set, there?” the woman says, once he’s onto his dry-heaves. “Good. Let’s take a ride.”

A ride sounds better than walking, so Steve allows himself to be bundled into the backseat. Lolls his head against Bucky's blood-crusted shoulder. Christ, if his mother could see him now, piss-soaked and bruised, covered in blood, smelling faintly of his own sick. It's worse than any schoolyard scrap, to be sure.

"Buck—" he manages as they leave the mews, vision narrowed to a pinprick because he doesn't understand any of this, and his head hurts so much, and really, truly, he just wants to go home.

Bucky shifts, grunts, and says nothing.

“Gotta…you…hosp’tal?”

“I’m fine. So’re you.”

Steve’s not so sure, but he’s also not the one who got shot.

“That’s some martyr-ful bullshit, Saint James,” says the woman from the driver’s seat. Steve squints, taking in her red hair, small hands on the steering wheel, greeny-blue eyes that crinkle up at the corners when he catches a glimpse in the rearview mirror. “Nice to finally meet you, Steve.”

Steve blinks, finding strangeness in her decorum and blithe demeanor. Still, he is returning to himself and his right mind, though parts of him are still soaking in the pool of blood; cowering on the floor; feeling the press of a knife against his knuckle. "You, who—?"

“Natasha,” Bucky says. “She’s my friend. Kinda.”

“Rude,” Natasha sighs, aggrieved.

“You said SHIELD,” Steve mumbled, the acronym pinging something in his memory banks. The woman’s portrait in the museum—the one Bucky said he knew—she had something to do with SHIELD. So, Bucky works for SHIELD? Maybe.

“You, ah…you’re SHIELD, Buck?” he asks.

Bucky, who is in the process of taking off his mask, shakes his head. “Nah. She does, though.”

“James doesn’t believe in job security.”

“Natasha,” he sighs, rubbing his face, which is sporting a harsh red line left by the rigid material.

“What? You don’t! You—”

Steve interrupts, splintered glass recollections beginning to sharpen. “How did you know we were…how were we…the police were there? But SHIELD?”

"Upstart terrorist cells tend to be federal jurisdiction," she says, rolling to a stop at a red light. "This particular bunch of jumped up morons has been on our radar for a while—minor leaguers, as evidenced by their ineptitude and cash grab—but they wanted to play with the big boys."

“Morons,” Bucky grunts.

“Oh, now, they found _you_ didn't they?" she says, tutting. "Anyway, we've got people going after the big dogs they wanted to impress, and we're handling the fallout from this little incident. No press, no outcry—attention's what they want, so we're reluctant to give it to them, lest they spur copycats."

“Attention, and me,” Bucky grunts.

“Oh, the _ego_ ,” she sighs, giving Steve a wink. “We knew they were curious about you, but we didn’t think they’d act so soon.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters.

“To be fair, they _did_ have bad intel. Still trotting out the old red star playbook.”

Bucky makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Идиоты”

“Да.”

"English?" Steve breaks in because his head is throbbing, and this is just another layer of confusion.

“Apologies,” Natasha says. “Old habits.”

“Is that what you are?” Bucky replies. “I always thought of you as a bad one.”

“Asshole.”

“At your service, сестричка.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” she continues. “Under more traditional circumstances, you two would be answering some questions right now. But I owe James a favor, so I took the liberty of sneaking you out the back before my team came in the front.”

Steve frowns. “What about Lorr—”

“Your friends are fine—debriefing with one of our agents as we speak. Getting them out of there was smart. You’re a shrewd tactician, you know that?”

A guilty weight lifts from Steve’s chest, and he sucks in a breath, which awakens fresh hurt in his bruised ribs. “Fuck.”

“Like I said, we have every reason to believe this was a rogue cell of morons trying to impress a slightly more stable group of lunkheads.” She takes a hard left—harder than Steve’s sore head wants—and accelerates. “While we tie up loose ends, though, you two are going to ground.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not going to some fucking SHIELD bunk—”

“Not SHIELD’s bunker,” she says, cutting him off. “My own. A girl can’t be too careful.”

“Hey now,” Bucky says, grin spreading, looking at her with what Steve might describe as familial affection. They don’t look alike, but maybe they’re related?

There will be time for questions, he supposes. Right now, he has a more pressing concern. "My mother?" Because it stands to reason that if those men knew his history and background, they'd know about her, too.

“Unlikely the lunkheads are interested, but we have an agent tailing her, just in case. She won’t realize he’s there unless he’s needed. Oh, and as far as she knows, you’re fine—you texted her twenty minutes ago to let her know you were staying with Bucky for the next couple of nights. Meaning that if this plays out the way I think it’s going to play out, she’ll never be any the wiser.”

Steve doesn’t like keeping secrets from his mother, but he recognizes that bringing her into the fold now would cause her more harm than good. So he agrees with the tersest of nods.

“Who do you have on her?” Bucky asks.

“Barton.”

“Oh, _fuck_ me!”

“What?” Steve asks, sitting up straighter. “Barton’s no good?”

“He’s _awful_.”

“Don’t scare him!” Natasha protests through laughter. “Barton’s my partner. I trust him with my life, and I definitely trust him with hers.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s a real genius,” Bucky snorts.

“You’re still pissed about Budapest.”

That gets a grunt. “I hardly think this is the time to bring up Budapest.”

“Mmm. How’s your arm?”

“In and out. Patch job.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“No kidding. Steve, how’s your head?”

Steve’s still worrying about whether or not this Barton guy is the best person for the job, so he misses the question. “Huh?”

“Your head. You took a few wallops.”

“Oh.” He touches his temple—where he took the worst hit—and finds that the blood has coagulated into a sticky mess. “Fine, I guess.”

“Dizzy? Seeing stars?” Natasha prompts. Steve’s been hit enough times to know she’s worried about a concussion.

“Not anymore.”

Taking another turn—this one to the right—she shrugs. "Hard-headed. You and Bucky have that in common. If you start feeling woozy, let me know, and I'll figure out how to get a medic."

"He can take a hit," Bucky says like he's proud, which kindles something warm in Steve's chest. That's good: he can still feel feelings, even if he's dazed and confused and mad and has about a million and a half questions for Bucky.

Beyond that, he is in shock. A little numb, a little slow. Capable of putting one foot in front of the other but not much more. Not much exists for him outside of the remembrance of a snapping neck. A knife embedded in an eye. A mass of twisted flesh where a face used to be.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, voice low, metal hand moving to cover Steve’s, which are wound together, trembling, in his lap. “You did real good, pal. And I’m gonna tell you everything, soon as we get where we’re going.”

“Fuck,” is his response, teeth chattering as the full force of what he’s lived through lands like a pile of bricks. Or a masked assassin dropping from the ceiling. Take your pick. “I’m falling apart.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve held it together this long,” Natasha says. “Not bad, for a civvie.”

This, to Steve’s poor, addled brain, feels like permission. The floodgates open as numbness fades, and there is nothing left to do now but cry.

Bucky and Natasha—hardened as they are—don’t mind. They let him be as the barrier his brain has erected to protect him crumbles into so many pieces.

His sobs subside by the time Natasha pulls into a curb on a side street in a far-flung corner of Queens, but he is still a shivering mess, which embarrasses him more than it ought to. He stumbles out of the car, refusing Bucky’s help, because he can at least walk on his own, god damn it. No matter that he’s nearly keeling over from exhaustion.

They follow Natasha through a metal door which scrapes roughly against rusted hinges, down a corridor, and through another thick security door disguised as a standard apartment entrance. Behind it is a small, sparsely furnished room, cast in watery, yellow relief from a single bulb encased in a frosted glass globe on the ceiling. There is a double bed, a kitchenette boasting a hot plate, a sink, and some paper plates, plus a sparsely populated bookshelf containing mass-market romance novels and a plant's corpse. The only window is covered in a thick, grimy film of dust, late afternoon light filtering through a couple of cracks. It would be tough to peer in from outside, which he assumes is intentional. This is the sort of place a person goes when they've run out of options. A bolt hole—a rat trap.

It makes Bucky’s hovel look like a cozy retreat.

Bucky is instantly at ease, unbuckling the straps and harnesses covering every inch of his torso. Meanwhile, Natasha crosses to the kitchenette and stands on her tip-toes to retrieve a metal box from the highest of three rickety shelves. The box has a faded red cross painted on the outside, and Steve's wounds sing with gratitude at the sight. As she moves closer, he notices how small she is. Smaller than him, even in boots. She is also beautiful, but in a way that feels prescriptive and sculpted. Not artificial, exactly, but full of artifice.

She has kind eyes, though. He thinks he might like her.

“Sit down,” she says, gesturing to one of two metal folding chairs shoved against a wall. “I’ll clean you up.”

“No,” Bucky says, dropping the last of his holsters, left hand falling to Steve’s shoulder in a way that’s not _not_ possessive. Steve shouldn’t like that half so much as he does, because he is still eighty percent piss and twenty percent vinegar with Bucky over the whole disappearing act. “Don’t you have someplace to go?”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change—same smile, same mask—but those kind eyes betray her hurt. “I’m right where I ought to be. Let’s see your arm.”

Reluctantly, Bucky undresses, stripping off the matte black leather vest that wouldn't be out of place in weird fetish porn. It's bulky—bulletproof, probably—and heavy, making a clunk when he drops it to the floor. With nary a wince, he pulls off the tight-fitting one-sleeved black shirt beneath. Did he tailor it himself to show off the arm, or for maximum tactical advantage. The thought is so ludicrous that Steve nearly giggles, but then he sees the bullet wound, and his glee dissipates.

The bullet went straight through, yes, but the damage was done. Strangely, though, the wound isn't bleeding much. Not that Steve knows how much an injury _should_ be bleeding, exactly, but ‘more than this’ seems about right.

Natasha examines the entrance and exit points before proclaiming, “stitches.”

“No.”

“Humor me, James.” She takes a step nearer. Bucky takes a step back. “Oh, what, you baby?”

“I’m _fine_.”

"Buck," Steve says because it seems like maybe he ought to say something. "Just let her do it. Christ, it's a gunshot wound."

“I been shot plenty of times. I don’t need her help.”

Steve squints. “But she just helped us—”

“He’s scared of needles,” Natasha says.

Bucky turns on her, snarling like a feral dog, all bristled and puffed up with indignation. “It’s not the god damn _needles_ ,” he snaps.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, “c’mon, I’ll hold your hand.”

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters, shoulders slumping in resignation.

The double act proves successful—Steve sits with Bucky on the creaky bed, holding his hand, while Natasha cleans the wound. Bucky doesn’t flinch when she swabs it, but when she starts putting stitches in (hands as steady as a surgeon), he looks away. Steve does, too, because something about the needle piercing flesh ooks the fuck out of him. He never knew how squeamish he was before today, but then, when would he have had the opportunity to find out?

Once she’s through with Bucky’s wounds, Natasha makes a second offer of assistance to Steve, which Bucky dismisses with a brusque, “I’ll do it. You make sure Barton’s doing his fucking job.”

Natasha’s lips quirk up in her first genuine smile of the afternoon, and she kisses Bucky’s cheek before taking a small keyring from her jacket pocket. “This is my only set. You’re not trapped. When I come back, you’ll know the knock.”

Bucky nods, fingers closing over the keys. Gripping them like a vice as he follows Natasha out, then locks them in.

Steve, meanwhile, sits on the bed, caught between collapse and curiosity. The latter wins the day, though—he can’t possibly surrender to sleep until he knows the truth. 

“So. Uh,” he starts, clearing his throat as Bucky turns away from the door.

An inauspicious start. Bucky sighs, coming to sit at Steve’s side, where he picks up the bottle of rubbing alcohol and a fresh cotton pad.

In the end, Steve starts with a supposition he’s already pretty sure of. “You were on your way, weren’t you? Before the cops showed up, before any of that.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know what was happening?”

“Natasha. She has a flag on the alarm at your place, just in case.”

 _The alarm I pulled_ , he thinks, momentarily proud, before realizing the implications. “SHIELD was _tracking_ me?”

“Yes.”

“Because of you.”

“Yes.”

Bucky touches the swab to the cut on Steve's temple, and he winces as the vortex of conflicting confusions coalesce into another something of which he is confident. "You were already in New York."

Dropping the reddened cotton onto the bed, Bucky nods and reaches for a new one. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know you were back from your trip.”

The accusation hovers, but Steve's not sorry. For as much as he wants Bucky to have a defense—to have some _explanation_ —his gut tells him nothing good is coming. This instinct is borne out when Bucky stays silent, eyes fixed firmly on the wall somewhere to the left of Steve’s head.

“Fuck you,” Steve whispers, hands balling into fists, the familiar urge to punch his way out of a problem welling up.

“Steve...” He starts, then stops, as if he knows there’s no excuse.

“You were gonna _ghost_ me?”

Bucky's lips move, forming the phrase even as he frowns. "I…no…?" He shakes his head, and Steve's eyes catch on a piece of rust-colored dandruff flaking to the floor. Blood in his hair. Blood on his hands. Blood on his mind.

“You’re an asshole.”

“It…” Another slow blink. “I wasn’t…I was trying to make it safe. Trying to fix it. This is _dangerous_.”

"Yeah, no shit, it's dangerous," he snaps, grabbing the alcohol and putting some distance between them. Ignoring Bucky's face when it goes all wounded puppy.

"I was going to tell you once I fixed it."

“Fixed it?” He hisses the words through gritted teeth, scrubbing as furiously as he dares at the cut on his temple. “I don’t even know what _it_ is, but I know it’s my fucking problem, too. Because you’re…ow, motherfuck!”

Bucky moves fast, flesh hand rubbing the back of Steve's neck. Soothing him through the sting. As much as Steve doesn't want to find comfort in the touch, comfort comes for him all the same. "You suck," he mutters.

“Yes,” Bucky agrees.

“And you are gonna tell me _everything_ ,” he continues, stabbing a finger against his bare, scarred chest. “You understand that? Because fuck you and your protecting me and your _ghosting_ me.” And it _was_ ghosting, even if temporary—a poltergeist of fuckery, perhaps.

“I wasn’t—”

“That’s not _fair_. We’re…you don’t do that to someone. You don’t lie, and you don’t…” he shrugs, wounded, sucking his busted lip between his teeth. “I’m pissed at you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“I know.”

“Or being taken care of.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you _do_ it?” he snaps, angrier now.

“I was always going to explain,” Bucky offers, voice holding a wince. “Even if I had to leave. But I had to make sure there weren’t complications first.”

“Fuck _that_ —” Steve starts, working up another head of steam, all sound and oh-so-righteous fury. Only he is cut off by Bucky’s lips, the gesture full of nerves and coltish angst, far removed from the ruthless killer.

The kiss catches Steve off guard. Shuts him up long enough for Bucky to pull back and speak.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” he says quietly. “I am. And I’m gonna try…the thing is, everyone I have ever loved, I forget. Because I lose them. Or they get taken away. Or _I_ get taken away, or—” His eyes fix on his lap. “Or they forget me instead. And I can’t…I couldn’t _do_ that again. Not when I found so much of me because of you. If they got me, if they got in my head. If they got _you_? There’s…not…there’d be nothing left of me then.”

The words come in fits and starts, Bucky’s eyes drifting to the place he goes where Steve can’t follow. And while that might be a place he lives less and less these days, it still holds sway, reminding Steve that Bucky is defenseless despite his defenses.

So, he sighs. Softens. After all, what's the use of being angry over a single drop of rain in a hurricane? After exhaling as much of his anger as he can manage, he reaches for Bucky's hand. "Alright, Buck. I'm listening. How about you take me through it from the top?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun reading all the comments guessing who the masked figure was - I almost wanted it to be Natasha, after that! Apologies to any native Russian speakers out there, I know I'm not great, so I tried to keep the phrases simple and short. If I have bungled something up, throw me a line at notlucy.ao3@gmail.com and I will correct. Also, I have been so touched and overwhelmed by the love for this story. Specifically to the kind commenter who asked if I sell my wares anywhere, the answer is that yes, I do, but the fic side of my writing is a labor of love. Your comments and kudos are more than enough compensation! 
> 
> For those of you who skipped the violence: Bucky and Steve kill and/or maim the bad guys. Steve ends up in a bit of a swoon, as one would, after such a bad day. 
> 
> Tune in next week for **Bucky Barnes' Official Backstory**. Hope you're all keeping well!


	14. Chapter 14

“My first name—given name—was James Barnes,” Bucky begins. “But I’ve had others.” 

“Others,” Steve echoes, fingers twitching.

"My mother named me after her brother. He died the month I was born. I remember that—not him dying, but her telling me about it. His name was James, and her maiden name was Buchanan, so she named me James Buchanan. They'd immigrated from Scotland, I think? Or Ireland. I can't—sometimes—maybe she was Scottish, and my father was Irish, but…"

He closes his eyes. Sucks in a long breath. Steve waits. 

“I was born in nineteen-seventeen,” he says after an interminable pause.

“Wait…” Steve frowns. “Seventy?” That can’t be right. There’s no way Bucky’s in his forties. Or his uh…nineties?

“No. Seventeen. I was—” He bites out a bitter laugh, opening his eyes. “This is gonna sound crazy, no matter where I start. But you gotta understand that maybe twenty percent’s what I remember, and the rest’s what I’ve been able to piece together from other people’s stories.”

Steve shrugs. The day can’t get worse, or weirder. If Bucky believes he can time travel, or whatever, that seems about right, considering. “Just…go on.”

“Right. Sorry. I wasn’t lying when I said I grew up around here. I’m from Brooklyn. The original version of me is, anyway. Being around you, all these memories started...” He lifts his metal hand and raps a knuckle to his temple. “During the war, I didn’t enlist. Wasn’t drafted. But I joined the Guard because we needed the money, and then my unit got called up.”

"Uh-huh," Steve says, because he's pretty sure Bucky is referring to World War Two. Which is a war he seems to believe he served in?

“Me and a couple other guys got pulled out before we deployed, though. Tough guys, but decent—none of us had ever been on the wrong side of the law. Good grades, athletic, that sort of thing. They sent us to this division called uh, the Strategic Scientific Reserve, which…” A small smile. “You remember the portrait of the woman in the museum?”

“Sure.”

"Yeah. That's…the SSR, she started there. Peggy Carter. What a pal she was, sneaking me smokes and hooch. She liked me, I guess, and I liked her. Because she was a straight shooter—about the only one they had. The rest of 'em wouldn't tell us shit about why we were there. Why they kept testing us. Pushing us. Psychological shit, too. I ended up being the best of a bad bunch, apparently. Set myself apart, though Christ knows I don't remember how, and they weren't keeping that shit on the books." His face twists up. "Or maybe it was just a lottery, and my number came up."

There’s a sudden loud noise. Steve jumps. Bucky reacts: puts himself between Steve and the window while scooping one of his guns from the floor. 

Turns out, it’s just the pinging radiator.

“Jesus,” Steve mutters. 

"Sorry," Bucky says. Puts his weapon down and joins Steve on the bed again. "It's…sometimes I believe I'm more'n half machine. I got a gun in my hand before I can think—"

“The uh…SSR, they did that to you?” Steve asks, playing a guessing game as he nods at Bucky’s prosthetic, not wanting to let him drift too far from the story.

"No. Not exactly…maybe inadvertently." Another deep breath and he reaches out, hesitating until Steve turns his hand up in invitation. Presses their palms together and gives him leave to continue. "The SSR, they picked me for this program. Operation Rebirth, they called it—I saw that in my file because nobody ever actually told me that was the name of it. I only remember bits and pieces, but it was a big fuckin' production. Lots of bells and whistles. The facility was in Brooklyn, funnily enough."

“Convenient,” Steve murmurs. 

“I’m not…” Bucky frowns. “I know it sounds nuts.”

“Yeah.” 

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Kinda did already.” 

Bucky frowns, head drooping, and hair falling like a curtain in front of his face. "Not…I didn't mean…"

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, though it does. “You were in Brooklyn.”

"Right. So. Things started to go wrong from the start, near as I can figure. This shit they were giving me—that was the big secret, enhanced humans, and I was their guinea pig—they got the formula from a fella Peggy'd rescued from the Krauts. Abraham Erskine. I liked him, too. But Peggy wasn't the only spy working, and the other side wanted him back. Dead or alive. They didn't care which. Halfway through this crazy procedure—the one that's supposed to turn me into that perfect soldier—a bomb goes off in the lab. Only it went off early because my goose was only partially cooked. I don't remember much about that, only that I couldn't feel my fucking arm. Never felt it again, because that was the day they took me."

“The Germans?”

"In name only. They call themselves HYDRA now," he mutters. "Back then, they were still just Nazis, reporting to some big shit named Schmidt, who believed he had more to offer the world than the Fuhrer. Once they had me, he made good on that belief—used my blood and bone and muscle to mix up a knock-off version of the serum."

“That’s why…your arm?” Jesus, even if Bucky’s full of shit, that’s a hell of a disturbing psychosis. 

"Yep, used that first. Used a few other bits and pieces, too. I was in and out of consciousness, and all I knew was fire and pain because they only kept me alive to cut me up. They were pretty sure the serum had worked on me, so they kept me drugged and stupid. I didn't punch my way out, at any rate. That took someone else's doing."

“Who?”

"Peggy Carter. Erskine died in the lab explosion, but she was still out there looking. She showed up, guns blazing, and busted me out alongside some other fellas. Blew up that skull-faced wannabe Fuhrer, too, and captured his sidekick without breaking a sweat." Bucky's grinning now—tears in his eyes as he knocks his fist against his temple again. However crazy the story is—whatever cobbled-together truth he's telling—it's evident that _he_ believes it. So Steve has no choice but to reach up. Take his hand. Pull it down to his lap so he can hold it there. Keep him steady. 

“She saved you, killed him,” he prompts. “Then what?”

Bucky blinks and shrugs. "I was missing an arm. Enhanced or not—and at that time, I still thought not—there wasn't much I could do for Uncle Sam. So they shipped me to a field hospital and let me recover there, with plans to send me Stateside when I was well enough. A couple of weeks later, the Russkies showed up."

“But they were…allies, right?”

“HYDRA’s allegiances cross borders. You cut off one head, sure, but that shit keeps growing. And nobody was gonna miss a one-armed failed science experiment when he disappeared. Nobody was gonna look that hard.” He hesitates. “Well. One person looked. But they’d gotten better at hiding their tracks, and she never found me.”

“So,” Steve frowns. “The Russians…had you?”

“Yup. Locked me up, threw away the key, then sat down to wait for further instructions.”

“From? I thought the uh…I thought Peggy Carter killed the Schmidt guy?”

“She did. But his second-in-command was still kicking. The Americans had him—Zola—in custody, and the higher-ups in HYDRA were loyal to him. Waiting for him. Turns out they didn’t have to wait long, because your everfucking government recruited him after the war.”

Steve goggles. “But he was a _Nazi_.”

Bucky smirks. “They recruited a lotta Nazis back then. Not as many as the Russians did, mind, but a lot. Hell, you guys wouldn’t have made it to the moon without one.”

“Wait, what?”

“Look up Wernher von Braun sometime, then temper your surprise. Anyhow, Zola was one of thousands they recruited. And the branch that got him? The good ol’ SSR. At first, they kept him trussed up, only bringing him out when they needed something big. But then in the fifties, the SSR became the scientific division of the newly-founded SHIELD. That’s when some dumb fucker took it upon themselves to offer Zola a genuine job. What they _didn’t_ know was that he’d already started getting his hooks into people behind the scenes. Including me.”

“Jesus.”

"Now, Peggy hadn't yet been apprised of Zola as a resource—as far as she knew, he was cooling his heels in prison—but when she was appointed to found SHIELD, the muckety-mucks at the top finally let her in on the secret."

“And?” Steve asks. 

“She flipped her lid. Kicked up one holy hell of a fuss, calling for hearings, demanding justification.”

“Good for her.”

"Thing is, though…everybody's got a boss. She was overruled, first by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and—when she wouldn't stop spitting nails—the White House. On account of Zola being such a _valuable_ asset, and all. Plus, the fact that he was so _obviously_ reformed and repentant for his crimes.” 

Steve’s never felt so naive—sure, he knows the government does shady shit, but recruiting Nazis, then _advocating_ for them? “Fuck.” 

“I only know this because Peggy’s on a half-dozen official records as disagreeing with the whole endeavor. All her personal reports indicate that she never trusted him. Never liked giving him the time of day, knowing what he’d done to me. She avoided him when she could, put up roadblocks where she couldn’t. Because of that, she left the day-to-day work with him to other people. Which—” He twists up his mouth. “If I was gonna be sour about anything, I’d be sour about that. Maybe if she’d been closer to it, she would have seen what was happening, but I don’t blame her. Not really. No more than I blame any of them. Erskine, Phillips, Stark—” 

“Wait, _Tony_ Stark?”

“Nah, his pop.”

“What did he have to do with it?”

“Ah, he was in it from the start—part of Rebirth, and part of SHIELD.”

“And Phillips?”

"Another co-founder. Him and Peggy and Stark together. People like to single Peg out, I guess because she's a woman—gets the glory, catches the blame—but if anyone was close enough to Zola to make out his master plan, it shoulda been Stark. Although, maybe he figured it out in the end—" He frowns like he's working through a disconcerting notion. "Maybe that's why they sent me to kill him."

Steve's heart drops. He doesn't remember Howard Stark's assassination, but it's the sort of thing that comes up in history class. The story seeped into the American consciousness in the way of anything that upends those god-like people in power. "You…?"

“Yes. I’m not looking for absolution, because I don’t think I deserve it. But I wanna be honest with you. If you walk out after I’m through, I won’t blame you.”

“I…alright,” he says, still digesting. Picturing Bucky as the ghostly assassin that murdered Howard and Maria Stark. 

It’s disconcertingly easy to imagine.

“Peggy never stopped looking for me. Kept my case open. Like I said, she was smart, and she started making connections. But she could never prove that I was HYDRA’s weapon, and every lead she ever got turned up a dead end. Because Zola was _good_. Obsequious, bowing at their feet as their whipping boy, all the while executing a plan he and his dead boss had spent years dreaming up.” 

“But what did he _do_ exactly?”

“Infiltrated SHIELD, to start. Sure, he was under government supervision, but he had a silver tongue and a master plan. At the same time, I guess you could say he made me the man I am today. Finishing what work the serum had started. Enhancements—physical, mental, peak fuckin’ performance—only it never did work quite the way it was intended to. My wounds heal, but my scars stay. The electricity they pumped into my brain? _That_ stays. Christ, I guess if I were pure of heart, I woulda fought harder. Acted tougher. But you forget how to be a goddamn person. You’re just the blank slate they scribble their plan onto before sending you out to do the work. Then they put you away, and it is _cold_ in the dark, Steve. It’s so fucking cold.” 

“Buck—?” he asks, scared now, because Bucky’s gaze is drifting somewhere dark and deep and yes, cold. 

"Cryogenics," he clarifies, clouds clearing enough for him to focus on Steve. "Early experimentation. That's how come I…look as young as I do. I got no idea how old I really am. They'd take me out for three months, six months, a year, sometimes. But I'd always start remembering myself eventually. No matter what they shocked outta me, I'd start calling for my mother, and the longer they kept me thawed, the worse it got. I started remembering more and more every time, and eventually, I started remembering _not_ to remember—not to let them know I knew myself even that tiny bit.”

This is more than Bucky has ever said at once—maybe more than he’s ever said in the entire time Steve’s known him—but there’s no mistaking his earnestness. “After Zola died, I was seen as less of an asset and more of an expensive failed experiment. I wasn’t as useful, so I got passed around. Different owners, different governments. Never the same place for long. Then, a few years ago, my latest master wanted a monarch removed from his throne. Only—” Twisting his torso, he shows Steve the familiar long, striped scars running down his back. “The monarch’s son took me out instead.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Big fuckin’ cat scratch,” he mutters with a grin. “But he didn’t kill me, because he saw my arm.”

“Your arm?”

“It’s ah…the Russian branch of HYDRA, the ones that took me the second time around? They’re the ones that gave me my first arm. And while it was a big, unwieldy fucker, some of the plating was made of a metal that had been stolen from this king’s country in the twenties. You ever heard of Wakanda?”

Steve has, though the images that come to mind aren’t of a place rich in precious metals—more like stereotypical Sally Struthers shit. “I…yeah, sure.”

“He shoulda killed me, Prince T’Challa,” Bucky says. “But he’s…ah, shit, maybe he wanted the arm, or maybe he recognized that I wasn’t there of my own free will. So he hauls me back to the palace, where his dad decides to take a chance on me. Or, rather, the princess gets a hankering to turn me into her personal science project. Only this princess—Shuri—is the opposite of every callous motherfucker who spent years taking me apart. She’s the one who starts putting me back together. _Listens_ to me when I start screaming for my mother.” He squeezes Steve’s fingers, eyes bright. “She’s the smartest person I ever met. The _kindest_ person I ever met. Because she didn’t have to do it—didn’t owe me shit—but she did it anyway. Dug through the soup in my head. Got a few synapses firing. She also started looking through old records, and it didn’t take her long to figure out who I am—who I _was_.” 

“Generous.”

“She can afford to be,” he replies, clearing his throat. “They’re the first people in seventy goddamn years who treated me like a human being instead of a weapon. So, I stayed. And I was obsessed with every scrap of my history that Shuri found. I started piecing myself together from the files of a couple dozen government databases—SHIELD, the DoD, the FBI—coloring in the parts of the story they took from me, and the parts I wasn’t privy to.”

“But…you’re not there now.”

“Nope. Because I remembered a few other things, too. Like the face of the master who’d sent me to kill the king. And one day, I stumbled across a picture and put a name to the face. Understood who he _was_.”

“Who?”

“One of your finest senators, my boy,” he smirks, affecting an upper-crust accent that’s distinctly unsettling. “Alexander Pierce.” 

Steve's eyes widen. The assassination of Senator Pierce isn't exactly forgettable—the most significant American tragedy of the last decade. A bullet between the eyes during a campaign rally, and they never found the shooter. "You…?"

“That fucker was HYDRA. Lotta people in your government were—are—though plenty aren’t,” he shrugs. “Like I said, Zola was canny. He laid a trap. Did plenty of recruiting before he shuffled off this mortal coil, and some after, too. But when I told Shuri about Pierce—that he was the one who’d wanted her father dead—she did some more research and uncovered the tentacles Zola had twined around American politics for decades. Once I knew, I couldn’t stay away. So she set me up to come back here and do what needed to be done. Then, when Pierce was dead? I stayed to see what was left of me. But the thing is, killing a senator gets you noticed by certain people. Certain redheads.”

“How do you two—”

"We're old friends, but that's her story to tell, so I won't tell it for her. My killing Pierce made her suspicious, which is the important thing. At first, she thought I was still with the Russians. Only, I hadn't been with them for a while, and when she tripped down the rabbit hole of corruption, she discovered that Pierce had been the last man to own me. It didn't take her long to uncover the same shit Shuri had—HYDRA agents infiltrating SHIELD, the whole fucking mess. Lucky for her, SHIELD's current director—Fury—was on the up-and-up, and had started suspecting a few things on his own. Ever since, there's been a small circle working to clear the rats out of the walls."

“And those guys today, they were HYDRA?”

“Nah, those guys were upstart wannabe Nazi dumbshits who got some good intel mixed with some bad, and couldn’t do much more with it than stick their heads up their asses.”

“But you were scared,” Steve counters, leaning forward. “When he said those…words. Those were Russian, weren’t they?”

Bucky’s eyes darken. “Faulty fucking programming. Triggers. Shuri pulled ‘em outta my head, but…” He shrugs. “The remnants still make me twitchy, I guess. Sometimes I still feel the weight of my old arm, too.” Lifting the new one, he smiles. “She built me this. Hundred percent vibranium.”

“Oh,” Steve says, nodding. 

“Jesus, you don’t believe a word of this, do you?”

“It’s…I believe that _you_ believe it.”

“Ah,” he smiles. “That’s alright. I’d have a hard time with it, too.” 

“I just…okay, say it’s all true. Since you killed Pierce, what have you been _doing_ exactly?”

“Contract work. Paid hits, mostly.”

“So, you murder people.”

"Bad people." He hesitates. Frowns. "I always check now. I got a code…whatever morality's left for someone like me. I do this for myself, not for them."

"But this 'them,' that's…what, governments?"

“Mostly. Private parties occasionally. If I determine that it’s valid, I don’t spend time on the particulars.” 

"But aren't you tired?" Steve has no trouble believing in this last part of the story: Bucky is a contract killer. He has and continues to take lives for cash. Two (maybe three) more today, in fact, and even if they are all evil people, that much death must weigh on a body. On a soul.

The question brings Bucky up short, and he frowns. “It’s what I was made for.”

“Oh, bullshit.” 

“It’s all I know how to do.”

“ _Bullshit_. Bucky, what you just told me is the craziest goddamn story I ever heard. If even half of it’s true, you should be playing with puppies and kittens all day for the rest of your life. You need to rest—you _deserve_ to rest.” 

“Can’t.”

“Why not?” 

"Because there's always gonna be people looking for me. For a while, I thought…I thought maybe I could take care of it. Settle. Put it behind me. But what happened today—"

“What about it?”

“That’s my fault.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“It is. They went after you because they know you’re tied to me. How can I stop fighting when they’re gonna keep coming?”

"Maybe if you tried keeping a lower profile," he offers, only half-joking.

“And do what?”

“Who fucking cares? Work in a bank—works for me! Stop drawing attention to yourself—like you said, people notice when heads of state are getting their heads removed.”

“No, _no_ ," he says sharply. "I was naive, thinking I could have a life. That's how they found me—found _you_.”

“So then why’d you stay at all? Why didn’t you go back to Wakanda? Sounds like you had it pretty good there.”

He frowns. “I imposed on them long enough. And…I wanted to come home. See what was left of me, like I said.” 

“And?”

“It’s a whole different world, which I shoulda expected. But I figured, well, I belonged here once. I could belong here again. I tried to carve out a life, only that didn’t work because I ran out of money. Then I started taking the hits, like I said. And yeah, Steve, you’re right. I can’t ever be _totally_ sure that my code's justifiable. That I'm playing fair. But it's what I've got to go on. Only…" He frowns, staring down at the patchwork bedspread. "Only after a while, I started thinking there was nothing left for me in Brooklyn. I was planning on establishing an identity, then disappearing. I won't bore you with the details, but part of it involved leaving a paper trail, so I came into that goddamn credit union, and there you were. Jesus, Steve, every time you opened your mouth, I'd feel that much more like myself. The part of me I can't remember pushing against my ribs. The first time I walked into your ma's house, it was like I finally found that thing I came home for."

Steve’s eyes are prickling, which is a shock—his mother’s always said he came out of the womb with sharp edges. “Shit,” he mutters. “That’s a lot, Buck.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky squeezes their clasped hands. “You’d be nuts to believe me.”

Steve’s not sure what he believes. Bucky’s story is nonsensical and fantastic: a cryogenically frozen soldier from World War Two helps dismantle a top-secret genocidal Nazi death cult by toppling world leaders with the assistance of his cyborg arm and super-serum. It’s the stuff of legend—sci-fi comics and summer popcorn flicks—but hey there, Horatio, put heaven and earth up against that philosophy of yours, and you ain’t lookin’ so hot.

In the end, the facts are these:

The men in the bank had been speaking Russian. 

Bucky’s arm is advanced beyond even the most state-of-the-art prosthetics. 

Natasha exists. 

Bucky has often seemed out of place and _wrong_. 

He’s overly formal when he texts. 

He uses slang that Steve hasn’t heard since his grandfather passed. 

He wept over the portrait of a dead woman. 

He treats it as a miracle every time Steve touches him with kindness. 

As if he doesn’t deserve it.

As if he hasn’t had enough of it. 

What it comes down to, then, is a choice: believe him, or don’t. Love him, or don’t. Give him the home he’s so desperately seeking, or send him back into the cold. 

Steve leans in and embraces him, skinny arms wrapping tightly around broad shoulders. “I love you, Buck.”

Bucky’s slumps, boneless, curling in on himself until his face is pressed against Steve’s stomach, head in his lap. 

“I love you,” he repeats, fingers stroking down the broad expanse of Bucky’s back, over the puckered gouges and scars. All those missing pieces.

“I love you,” he says for a third time, folding himself over Bucky’s body like a shield. 

They stay like that until the sun slips below the horizon, and the dim light filtering through the blacked-out window is gone. When Steve moves to sit up, his spine cracks, every inch of him stiff and aching. The shock and adrenaline of the afternoon have long since gone, and he is left with nothing but his soreness.

“Alright?” Bucky asks, lifting his head, tear tracks visible on grimy, bloody cheeks. 

“Sore.” 

“How’s your head?”

“Also sore. And I’m starving.” 

“We oughta eat.” 

Normalcy is restored by two bottles of water, a jar of peanut butter, and a loaf of white bread.

“Peanut butter sandwiches?” Steve offers after surveying the sparse inventory.

Bucky shrugs. “Sure.”

“Great, I’ll—”

“I love you back,” he blurts. “Shoulda said that before. That I love you. Because I do.” 

“That’s…” Steve grins, reaching for a butter knife. “Thank you, Buck.” 

“I was so sure I couldn’t love anyone—I figured they cut that out of me, too, you know?” 

Steve thinks that over as he opens the jar, scooping some creamy brown butter onto the slightly stale bread. "Nah. The thing about you, Buck, is that you're way more loving than me. You're always…touching. You're respectful, too. You take your time, and you see me the way I am. I figure that's a big part of love, because I never had anyone treat me like that before. So it's…" He rolls his eyes. "Aw, jeez, I'm getting sappy."

“I don’t mind.”

“I was just gonna say that I’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. But shit, Bucky, you’re the one who showed me what love is, so I think you’re fulla shit when you start talking about having the love cut out.” 

Bucky sighs, stepping closer and pressing himself against Steve’s back, fingers splaying against his stomach as he holds him. For a moment, neither speaks, until Steve bumps his hips against Bucky’s pelvis to dislodge him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You want a sandwich or not?”

There’s a smile in Bucky’s voice when he responds, breath warm against the shell of Steve’s ear. “Yes, please.” 

Sandwich. Bed. Everything else can wait until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This one was a beast to write. I want to personally thank Marvel for their utterly confusing chronology when it comes to Zola, SHIELD, Phillips, Howard, Bucky, and Peggy. Trying to meld Bucky's alternate history for this story with Marvel's refusal to put a solid date on anything while also offering contradictory evidence depending on what you're watching was a **doozy** , let me tell you. Was Bucky drafted or did he enlist? Who cares! When was Zola actively working for the SSR/SHIELD vs. just being a useful prisoner? Who knows! When was SHIELD founded? Eh, early fifties if you're watching _Agent Carter_ the TV show, a year after the war ended if you're watching _Agent Carter_ the short film. Stop asking us questions! Does fandom worry more about making sense of this mess than the giant corporation profiting from it? Oh, most definitely. (Seriously, they've given Bucky two birthdays and Peggy three backstories, not to mention a great-niece who shares her surname despite Peggy's brother dying in the war and it's fine, it's fine, it's fine! It's all made up and the points don't matter.)
> 
> I ended up going with what makes the most sense to me, knowing what I know of those characters, their allegiances, and their morals. Plus, in a world where Steve was never Steve and Bucky got the serum but lost an arm in the process, things happened differently. I'm sure there are gaps and leaps of logic, but hey, that's the MCU, baby. (I learned it from watching them!)


	15. Chapter 15

Steve’s dreams are dark. Bullets and blood. A lead weight on his chest that pins him down. When he wakes, though, he finds the weight is only Bucky, barnacled to his side, all four limbs clinging like some great, tentacled beast. Sea creatures probably smell better, though. Bucky is riper than a peach—sweat and sorrow coating his skin in a way that’s far from pleasant. Steve’s no better, he’s sure, but sleep had won out over a shower. Now, though, hot water sounds like the best thing coming or going, so he shifts his weight, only to find he’s so sore he can barely wiggle his toes, much less maneuver himself from beneath Bucky’s bulk. 

Defeated, he goes limp against the thin mattress, pressing a kiss to the top of Bucky's lank locks. The piss-poor light of a grey morning speckles through the grimy window in a game attempt to brighten the tiny room.

Trapped there, minutes pass, and challenging thoughts begin to intrude.

How long will they have to stay?

Is his mother really safe?

When is Natasha coming back?

Does he _genuinely_ believe Bucky's outlandish story, or is he merely fooling himself?

Lifting his untrapped arm, he winces at the ache, then traces a finger down Bucky’s cheek. Presses just below the sharp angle of his mandible to feel the slow, steady throb of his heart. 

How many times has that heart beaten in a hundred years? Did it slow when they froze him in time? Did it weaken when they brought him back, the strain wearing him down, year by year?

Swallowing, Steve touches a second finger to Bucky’s neck. Watches for the rise and fall of his back. Digs deeper until Bucky shifts. Moves. Starts awake with a hitching breath and an immediate tension in his spine. 

“Sorry. Just me,” Steve murmurs, reassured by the uptake in the tempo of Bucky’s breathing as he presses another kiss into that tangled mess of hair.

Bucky lifts his head, blinking himself back to awareness. Steve feels the exhale of heavy breath against his neck as Bucky leans down to kiss him there. Chapped lips rough against dirty skin.

They don't move again for a long time, until Steve's bladder becomes a pressing concern, and he nudges Bucky back. Sitting up, he groans, spine cracking in protest.

“You’re hurting,” Bucky says with a frown.

“Shit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

"Not really." He indicates his stitches, which look less raw and more like injuries a couple weeks old. It's gruesome, considering the stitches are still there, skin puckering around the thread. Steve swallows his discomfort as he reaches out to touch them.

“Wow…” he manages. Seeing is believing, in its own weird way—evidence of a superhuman ability to heal. 

“I told her I didn’t need goddamn stitches,” he grumps, watching Steve’s fingers. “How bad’re you hurtin’?”

“Ah—” He hesitates. “Probably easier to tell you what _doesn’t_ hurt.”

Bucky considers this and nods. “Shower’ll help with more than your stink, then.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no bed of roses, pal,” he replies, mouth twitching. “Anyway, the shower’s probably cold.”

“Nah. Nat and I got enough cold showers to last us a lifetime.” 

Steve hates that. Bucky, meanwhile, seems unbothered by the discomfiting recollection, rolling off the bed and into the bathroom to start the shower. Steve follows after a moment, hitting the head before joining him beneath the scalding hot spray. The pipes might be shit, but the temperature’s fine, and though his skin screams in protest, his muscles sing in grateful delight. 

There's nothing particularly sexual about it—they kiss a little, mouths pressing comfort to tender places, fingertips trading touches. Skin on skin as they clean what remnants of the bad day remain—Steve's worst day, but probably one of a million terrible ones for Bucky.

It'll be the last one, though, if Steve has anything to say about it. As he cradles Bucky's head in his hands, massaging shampoo into his scalp, he finds that he has _plenty_ to say. In fact, he plans on getting real vocal, real soon. 

Ten minutes later, they emerge with threadbare towels around their waists. (Steve’s fits fine, while Bucky’s leaves nothing to the imagination.) No sooner has Steve sat down on the bed than a precise pattern of knocks sounds in the distance. Natasha, signaling her arrival, no doubt. 

“She’s probably got the goddamn place bugged,” Bucky mutters, taking the keys off the counter to let her in.

“Buck—” Steve protests. “Let’s put some clothes on first, huh?”

Bucky blinks. “What clothes?”

Fair point—what clothes they have are crusted with blood, piss, and other viscera. So Bucky goes to open all the doors, returning moments later with Natasha, who looks remarkably refreshed, a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. _Bucky’s_ duffel bag, Steve realizes upon closer inspection, with its worn strap and oversized zipper. 

“Good morning,” she says, holding out the bag. 

“You broke into my place,” Bucky grumbles.

“Naturally.”

He squints, then shrugs and takes the duffel. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You’re welcome. I guess. Hi, Steve.” 

Steve attempts dignity as he rises, clutching his towel. “Hi.” 

Bucky suffers no such qualms regarding modesty, dropping his towel as he crosses to the bed, then roots around inside the bag for something to wear. Natasha ignores the free show, and it occurs to Steve that they both might be a little too familiar with the concept of clothing as a reward rather than a requirement. The idea makes him feel sick, so he moves to stand behind Bucky, preserving some small bit of modesty. 

“None’a this is gonna fit you, Steve,” he declares, oblivious. 

“I’ll make do.”

Making do turns out to be a pair of Bucky's jeans which hang off the ends of his feet, along with a hoodie he could swim laps in. Beggars and choosers, sure, but at least he's comfortable. Bucky dons a hoodie, too, and some sweatpants that really ought to have boxers beneath them, but Natasha hadn't gone rooting in his underwear drawer.

Once they’ve dressed, she fills them in on what’s transpired in the roughly fourteen hours since they last saw her, leaning against the wall while Bucky and Steve take seats on the bed. “As I said, those morons were tied to a small, splinter wannabe-HYDRA cell. That’s what they were calling themselves anyway. We spoke with the one you left alive. Turns out, he was extremely amenable to giving up all the information he had on the big shits who sent him on his errand.” She smiles at Steve, then winks. “They won’t be causing either of you any more trouble.”

“You’re sure about that?” Bucky presses.

“About these particular yahoos, yes. As for the thousands of others out there that want your head on a platter, well, I can make no promises. I can, however, make a job offer. As always.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, Steve sits up straighter and shakes his head, replying for him. “He won’t be needing that.”

The briefest hint of a smile crosses Natasha’s face. “Nice of you to say so, Steve, but—” 

“You said you got the guys. So it’s over. You don’t need Bucky.”

“I said we got _these_ guys. There are others.”

“Still don’t see how that’s Bucky’s problem.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “She always asks. I always say no. It’s fine.”

“All due respect, Buck, but it’s not.” Shaking off his hand, he gets to his feet, advancing toward Natasha with two parts stupidity, one part naivety, and maybe a bit of balls-to-the-wall bravery thrown in on top. “Stop asking. He’s done. With all of it. I don’t care what you have to do to make that happen, but it’s over.”

“Is that so?” Natasha leans in, calculated surprise on her face that Steve doesn’t for one second think is genuine. “I hate to break it to you, but you don’t get to make that call.”

"Maybe. But I've had some time to think, and here's what I know. First off, I know that he—" He nods toward Bucky. "Was a POW. Probably the longest captured POW in history, when you think about it. A POW abandoned by his government, even though some of them _knew_ he was out there. Hell, nobody in this country gave a shit about him until he started killing the Nazis you people couldn’t find in your own ranks. And as far as I’m concerned, that particular pit of snakes is _your_ problem. Not his.”

“I see,” she says like she doesn’t.

"You know, it'd be pretty embarrassing for SHIELD if all that stuff about the senator leaked after you guys worked so hard to cover it up."

Natasha's eyes flick from Steve to Bucky, then back again. It's brief and likely intentional. Nevertheless, he presses on.

“We’re willing to offer you our silence. In exchange for a few things.” Maybe it’s not smart to threaten the scary spy lady with the government organization funding her every move, but Steve has always thought of himself as being a decent judge of character. Natasha, if nothing else, seems like someone with a code, and a certain amount of loyalty to Bucky.

“Are you?” she asks, arms folding across her chest. “I’m all ears.”

Steve mimics her gesture because he might not have much leverage, but he can try not to telegraph his punches. "Bucky's retiring. Today. He's not taking any more jobs, or contract work, or whatever you guys call the hits. His plan is to feed pigeons in the park before going home to yell at Jeopardy like a real goddamn retiree. Isn't that right, Buck?"

Bucky’s voice sounds like a frown. “Steve…”

“Buck.” 

“I…yes,” he concedes. “I guess that’d be alright.”

He doesn't sound confident, so Steve turns around, studying him carefully. "Isn't that what you want?" It had certainly seemed that way the night before—all the escapes he'd attempted to pursue something normal.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and the saddest thing about the way he says it is that it’s _true_. “It’s easier if…if you drive?” 

Recognizing the significance of that choice—and the weight of that responsibility—Steve nods. Turns. Steels himself for whatever fight Natasha might be ready to put up. “See, now, I guess that _does_ make it my call. So yeah, Bucky’s gonna have the life he should have had seventy-some years ago. And you can probably figure that he told me all about that. It’s the craziest shit I ever heard, but the thing is? I believe him. And as far as I’m concerned, he is due some goddamn R&R. Maybe some remuneration, too, but I don’t expect much, considering the shitty compensation Uncle Sam gave my mother when my dad got killed.”

Natasha looks like she wants to say something. Steve holds up a hand. “No, just hang on. The most important part of this whole thing is that you guys are gonna leave him alone. Stop asking for his help, and start working on keeping him safe.”

Natasha’s lips settle into a thin line. “And what would be our incentive to do that? James is a valuable asset.” 

"No incentive. No tactical advantage. Only this: it is the decent—human—thing to do. If you're serious about setting yourself apart from the Nazi rats that got into your walls, I'd imagine that compassion and humanity are your new guiding principles. So act like it. And in return, you'll at least know where he is. Because he'll be here with me. Living an average, quiet life. Shit, play your cards right, and maybe he'll come in once in a while to consult. _If_ you hold up your end of the bargain.” 

“Mmm.” Natasha shrugs. “You’re not wrong about my personal guiding principles. But…I do have a boss. And that boss has a boss.”

“And?”

“And that boss’s boss doesn’t like loose ends.”

“Bucky’s not a loose end,” he grits. “But maybe I ought to talk to your boss.”

Natasha grins at that, eyes lighting up. “I bet you would, too. But considering the circumstances, I think I ought to do the talking. He owes me one.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. Because some people didn’t _want_ to suppress the information about the HYDRA infiltration. Some people wanted to broadcast it to the whole world.”

“By ‘some people,’ you mean you?”

“Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” she replies. “But I was overruled, and as such, I think I’m owed a favor.”

“Ah.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll stop coming, though. Even if I push this through, and even if we keep an eye out, there may be threats we can’t foresee.” 

“Fewer every day, if you do your job right,” Bucky replies quietly, speaking for the first time since Steve started laying out his demands. “And if I stop seeking ‘em out.”

Natasha hums in what might be approval, smiling at Steve. “You’re a decent tactician, Rogers—and a shrewd negotiator. Might even be a good one, with some training.”

Steve thinks he might be flattered. “Uh. Thanks?”

“You wouldn’t last a day in the field, but…” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Huh. Anyway, like I said, no promises. Coulson’s a stickler for protocol, and Nick’s a tough sell, but they do owe me one.”

“Coulson’s a pushover,” Bucky mutters. “He recruited _Barton_ for Christ's sake." 

“Could you just lay off Clint for a minute?”

“Nah.” 

“He’s still tailing your mother, by the way,” she informs Steve. 

“Oh. Good. I guess.” 

“Get used to it—under this proposed arrangement, we’d always have eyes on you. That’s what you’re signing up for.”

“You got eyes on him now,” Bucky replies. “Same fuckin’ difference, except you’re on his side.”

“Touche.”

“Tell your agents to be a ghost story,” he says with a grin, stepping up beside Steve to throw an arm around his shoulders. “Fade into the shadows. Worked for me all those years.”

“You’re adorable,” she retorts through a half-smile. “You got a backup plan for when this inevitably goes south?”

“Nope,” Bucky says. “But we’ll figure it out. What else am I gonna do with my days, now I’m retired?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, glancing around the room. “You two should go. I’ll stay, clean up your mess. Get in touch when I have an answer.”

“If you think I’m gonna leave you alone with _any_ of my vital fluids, you got another thing coming,” Bucky snorts. 

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“All the same, I’ll burn that shit myself.” 

They take their leave in short order—Steve shoving their dirty clothes into the duffel while Bucky goes through a ritual of wiping down every surface he’s touched. After that, they head outside into the early morning light and a world that remains blissfully oblivious to the monsters lurking just beneath the surface of respectability. 

It’s not until they’re a few blocks away that Bucky breaks the silence, glancing over at Steve with a grin. “You got some gumption,” he says like a 1940s newsreel. (Which, Jesus, when someone shows you who they are, believe them. Steve ought to have asked questions sooner.)

“Is that what it is?” 

“Yeah, that’s what it is. Standing up to her’s no picnic.”

“Well, I love you. And I’m not wrong.” 

“You’re…” Shaking his head, Bucky stops them with a touch to Steve’s shoulder. “You make it sound easy, but it’s more complicated than that. You got no idea—” 

“Pretty simple from where I’m standing.” Steve reaches out, grabbing the dangling strings of Bucky’s hoodie and giving them a tug. “You told me to drive, so I drove. You’re discharged. Retired. Whatever you wanna call it. And I’m the person you’re coming home to. Fuck the rest—like you said, we’ll figure it out.” 

“There are gonna be conditions. She’ll come back with some compromise, and—”

"I gotta believe it's gonna work, Buck," he presses. "I'm no optimist, but I think Natasha's as good as her word. I think she's gonna plead our case to her bosses, and figure out how to let us live our lives. If I worry about the alternative, I'll lose my mind. All this shit, you know? Nazis and mystical cults and secret government agents…that stuff's beyond me, pal. All I want to do is love you, and let you love me, so I'm gonna do that until someone tells me no."

“And if they do?”

“I’ll fight ‘em until I can’t fight anymore.”

Bucky looks like he might protest, but maybe he sees something in the set of Steve’s jaw, or maybe he just knows better than to punch above his weight. So, he nods. Smiles and leans down as Steve leans up, mouths meeting in the middle. 

“Breakfast?” Bucky mumbles against his lips. 

Steve’s midsection growls. He nods, then takes Bucky's hand. “We can take something home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, it's almost over! Epilogue coming next week. Thank you to _everyone_ who has kudosed, bookmarked, commented, or been generally lovely about this story. It means more than you know.


	16. Epilogue

Steve's new chair doesn't squeak. It's an expensive chair—a quality chair—with a mesh back piece and various protruding doohickeys that allow him to adjust the lumbar support and the height and the depth and how much he wants to be able to recline at any given moment.

It's a good chair. He rarely misses the old one. Rarely thinks about his time spent behind the counter at the credit union. Maybe that's compartmentalization, or a trauma response, but he doesn't think so. He's simply moved on, though Lorraine is still his best friend, he sees Mrs. Washington around the neighborhood sometimes, and he's met Mia once or twice for coffee since leaving.

There are very few similarities between his old job and his new one, save for the universal truth that running out the clock on a Friday can feel endless. Still, Steve is dutiful and diligent, dotting and crossing all the metaphorical Ts and Is as he finishes his latest report, which is due before five. It is a boring report, but then, many parts of his job are boring. Most of his time is spent on spreadsheets and data analysis, broken up by occasional bursts of excitement when he’s asked to assist the folks upstairs.

Eventually, he hopes to be one of those folks. To learn and advance through the ranks until he’s the one generating all that excitement. 

But, for now, he’ll stay on the seventeenth floor, picking out patterns that might one day be incorporated into a tactical plan.

Still, his chair doesn’t squeak.

Yawning into his fist, he saves the file and attaches it to an email he sends his supervisor, replete with a smiley face and best wishes for her weekend. Then, he pushes back from his desk—one of dozens of similar desks, broken by half-wall dividers, giving the barest illusion of personal space—and picks up his messenger bag. (Leather, because his shiny new salary allows for an occasional splurge.)

As he turns, he’s only half-surprised to find a familiar figure perched on the empty desk behind him. 

“Warn a guy, Romanov,” he says, rolling his eyes even as he tamps down the slight spike in adrenaline she manages to cause every goddamn time she sneaks up on him. 

“Rogers,” she replies, combat-booted feet swinging idly. 

“I see you’re back stateside.”

“As of oh-nine hundred. We’re celebrating—you coming?”

 _'We,'_ Steve assumes, means her and Barton, possibly Morse and Mack. And while it’s nice of her to offer, a grunt hanging out with the cool kids does tend to annoy the other would-be-handlers working with him here in the dregs. He learned that lesson quickly—not that it’s his fault he got his start at Natasha’s side rather than the academy, but he doesn’t like to ruffle feathers. Unless those feathers need ruffling, that is. “Nah,” he shrugs. “Dinner’s waiting at home.”

“Young love,” she teases, waggling her fingers and hopping off the desk. “You love to see it.”

“More like I’m saving you from looking like a softy—playing favorites with the plebs.” 

“Don’t see how I could, considering I don’t like you at all.” 

Steve smiles, the two of them heading to the elevator bank, the weight of a dozen sets of eyeballs on their backs. “Coulda fooled me.”

“How dare you. I’m a master of my craft.” 

"You're something, alright," he agrees, pressing the button and stepping back to wait.

“Eyyy,” she grins. “Take it easy on me, I’m worn out.” 

“Bob and weave, kid. Tell Barton my mother says hi.”

“Ha.”

“Goodnight,” he grins, giving her a salute as the elevator door slides open and he steps inside. 

“As you were, Rogers,” she says, stoic until the doors are nearly closed, which is when she sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes, timing it so he can’t get a word in edgewise before she’s gone. 

The smile on Steve's face sticks around as he leaves the nondescript glass and chrome building in midtown Manhattan. Allows himself to be swept into the standard Friday evening pedestrian river, flowing toward the nearest subway stop. For now, he is anonymous. No-one. Certainly not a guy who just left his top-secret job at the top-secret government agency where he's worked for nearly a year.

Natasha hadn't been joking when she talked about Steve showing promise as a tactician. When she showed up at his place three days after the faux-robbery, it had been with an agreement for Bucky's freedom, yes, and a job offer of a different varietal than the one she usually offered Bucky. Mostly because it was for Steve. The latter wasn't contingent on the former, she was quick to point out, but the fact remained that she saw some untapped potential within him that she'd be remiss not to pursue.

Steve, after some careful consideration, decided to accept the offer. After all, what better way to keep tabs on SHIELD’s rehabilitation efforts than to be a man on the inside? Sure, they probably still think they’re the ones keeping an eye on _him,_ but that’s their mistake. As far as he’s concerned, he’s coming out ahead. New job, new salary, and the opportunity to make a difference while keeping the world a little safer for the people he loves—what could top that? 

It takes two trains and a short walk to reach home, where he rushes up the steps and unlocks the four different locks on their front door. (This includes a biometric scanner disguised as a rusted knob, installed at Natasha's insistence. There had been security upgrades all around, in fact, from bulletproof windows to a steel-reinforced entry door. Because one might not be able to _stop_ the bad guys, but one can at least slow them down long enough to grab a weapon.)

Stepping inside, he’s greeted by a smell that’s garlicky and spicy and warm and ready, which can mean only good things for the evening ahead. 

“Hello?” he calls, hanging his bag on the hook next to the coat stand. 

“In here, honey,” Sarah replies, voice floating from the living room.

Steve smiles, hanging up his coat and following the sound. He finds her on the couch, television blaring with the dulcet tones of her most loved-to-hate holy roller. Scrubs on, hair up, because she has to leave for her shift in about an hour, according to the extremely efficient whiteboard calendar they’ve started keeping in the kitchen. He doesn’t have much time with her these days, as their schedules make them ships passing in the night more often than not, but he knows she’s proud of him and his new job, even if she’s not _entirely_ sure what it is he does. After all, junior analyst sounds the same whether you’re working for Chase or the CIA. 

Bucky is curled up by her feet, knees pulled to his chin, wearing layers of comfort—flannel pajama pants, frayed at the bottom, and an oversized hooded sweatshirt with his arms pulled into his sleeves. 

“Hi,” Steve greets, flopping down on the couch with Sarah, leaning over to kiss her cheek as he arranges his legs on either side of Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky drops his head back against the cushion, blinking at him upside down. Steve grins, leaning over to kiss the groove in his chin. “Also, hi.” 

“Hi,” Bucky replies, right hand moving to stroke his cheek. 

“What smells so good?” he asks, kissing Bucky’s palm before sitting up.

“Pizza,” Bucky says. “It’s in the oven.” 

“Good timing.” 

“Tracked your phone.”

“Cheat,” he smiles, tapping a finger against his nose.

"You're hungry, ain'tcha?" comes the grunted reply, paired with a half-smile as he levers himself to his feet. Ever a man of few words, he heads to the kitchen, where he begins banging things around. Turns out, Bucky's a secret gourmand, and he's spent the first year of his retirement teaching himself everything from boeuf bourguignon to beignets. Meanwhile, Sarah and Steve have been enjoying the bounty of his ambitions, no longer forced to forage meals from leftover containers and cereal boxes.

Take the pizza, for example. Bucky made the crust, Steve’s sure, and probably the tomato sauce, too. Hell, he’d make the cheese if they’d let him get a cow. 

They're soon sitting down at the dining room table, newly-restored to its former glory by their personal handyman-chef. Thirty minutes after that, Steve has eaten the better part of a pie and is entering the realm of culinary regret as he rubs his stomach and groans. "Dying."

Sarah rolls her eyes. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“Worth it,” he grunts. 

“I’m sure.” Standing, she kisses the top of his head, then Bucky’s in turn. “Gotta hit the road. I’ll see you in the morning, muppets.” 

“Night, ma,” Steve says. Bucky just smiles, watching until she’s disappeared from view. Moments later, they hear the front door open and shut, locks automatically clicking into place. 

“I’ll clean up,” Steve offers. 

“I don’t mind,” Bucky replies.

So they do the dishes together, homey as you please. Occasional splashes between them, until Steve snaps a towel at Bucky’s backside. Bucky grins and gives chase down the hall and into their shared bed. There, they take care of one another. A slow, familiar fuck, perfect for a Friday night at home with your fella. 

It's a luxury to be able to take things slow.

A luxury to live the life they live.

It is also, Steve finds, becoming wonderfully mundane. 

Normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, friends, is all she wrote! Thank you to everyone who has been on this journey from the beginning, and those who joined along the way. I hope you had fun - I did! Thank you to Kate for her lovely beta work, to HeyBoy for inspiring the Marvel Trumps Hate journey in the first place, and to every single person who left a comment, a kudos, or just spared a kind thought for this story. If you enjoyed it and want to tell a friend, I won't mind one bit. Keep safe and be well!


End file.
